


Scars

by Vhetin1138



Series: The Price of Defiance [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, F/F, Fever Dreams, First Loves, Flashbacks Galore, Near-death Experiences, Origin Story, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-08-26 01:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 75,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vhetin1138/pseuds/Vhetin1138
Summary: Marian Hawke is dying. Mortally wounded during her battle with the Arishok, she is left to struggle back to health under the watchful care of her companions. Merrill must fight to protect her from new threats that arise all around. And Hawke herself, caught up in fever dreams, must learn to embrace her destiny as champion.Rated M for violence, language, and sexual content.





	1. Varric's Foreward

**Author's Note:**

> Just a head's-up: this story is currently incomplete and therefore may (let's be honest and say probably will) go through some delays, editing, and re-writes before it's in a state I'm pleased with. Until then, enjoy!

**An unpublished excerpt from _The Tale of the Champion_ by Varric Tethras**

This tale, dearest reader, has embraced many a strange and eccentric character. Templars and mages, Qunari and thieves have all wound their way through our heroine’s tale like a line of cabaret dancers at the Blooming Rose. Some were allies, most were enemies, but all had a profound influence on Marian Hawke’s life in Kirkwall.

But there is one character that has not yet seen his fair share of time in the spotlight despite his powerful hold over our Champion. And he is admittedly a man who deserves much more attention and praise than this small detour will allow. He was a mage, a powerful pyromancer, and a very wise man who happily called himself Hawke’s mentor as well as her oldest and dearest friend. His words comforted her at times when even the silver tongue of yours truly could not, and his guiding hand led her through the darkest and happiest of times equally.

Who was this mysterious man, you ask? Some secret companion, until now unmentioned in our adventure? Some great hero of Kirkwall’s underworld, or a mighty mage operating from the confines of Circle? Unfortunately, dearest reader, this is one part of our tale that is not so fantastical.

This mysterious guiding force was her father, Malcolm Hawke, and he died three years before the future Champion arrived in the city she now calls home. But some men continue to influence the present long after their deaths, and Malcolm Hawke was a busy man in life; it stands to reason he would continue guiding his eldest daughter even long after he was laid to rest.

This is one of those times.

Our current tale takes us to a very dark time for our fair heroine. The scene, as usual, is set in Kirkwall. But the circumstances could not be more terrible.

The Qunari have risen up in a violent revolution, slaughtering hundreds. The Templars are overwhelmed, fighting a desperate battle for survival in blood-soaked streets and body-clogged alleyways. The head of Kirkwall’s viscount lies on the floor of the Keep, under the triumphant boot of a vengeful Arishok. And Isabela, our beloved pirate queen, has vanished into the wind, carrying with her the only item that could stop the bloodshed. It is into this chaos our protagonist appears.

Marian Hawke: smuggler, apostate, and sharp-tongued defender of Kirkwall’s underworld. An unlikely hero, more used to breaking the law than upholding it, but a hero nonetheless. And tonight, Kirkwall desperately needs such a hero. She has been battling for hours. She is bloody, bruised, sore, and hungry. And now the only thing that stands between her and the salvation of her city is a two-meter-tall warlord hell-bent on burning the entire metropolis to the ground.

The Arishok: a force of terrible power, an image to be both feared and – strangely – admired. He is every bit as strong as the oxen the commoners compare to his folk and stands almost a whole head taller than humans – and at least three heads taller than even the tallest of dwarves. His massive weapons, a greatsword and axe wielded in each hand as easily as twin daggers, glint in the moonlight that streams through the stained glass windows high above. Bulging muscles flex and churn beneath his slate-gray skin as he stalks through the bloodied entrance hall. Great curved horns, wrapped with brass adornments and sharpened to spear points, curve back over his shoulders like a regal crown.

Hawke stands alone before this horned titan, determined to extract vengeance for all that has been taken from her this night. Refugees and prisoners cower behind her, held in place by teams of the Arishok’s loyal Qunari soldiers. Blood stains the elegant tiling at her feet and runs in rivulets down the stairs from the decapitated corpse of the former viscount.

We’re all there with her, of course. All but Isabela, who took her new ship and vanished before we could catch her. Anders, Sebastian, and Aveline are penned in with the rest of the prisoners to the left, weapons ripped from their hands by more not-so-gentle giants. Merrill, Fenris, and I are shuffled off to the other side of the room, to another knot of captives. We’re similarly disarmed; a Qunari blade larger than I am tall is pushed against my chest as I try and fail to keep my precious Bianca clutched in my grasp.

The Arishok’s intention is clear. He wants to kill us all, kill us or enslave us and reduce Kirkwall – which he perceives as a terrible den of iniquity – to little more than ashes. It is his holy mandate, a task he sees as the sworn duty of his people. The only duty that has ever mattered. There is a cold ruthlessness to his actions that, to my dismay, is difficult not to admire. He takes no pleasure in the chaos and bloodshed and instead treats it as an unfortunate necessity to break an already-terrible stalemate.

He is the most dangerous of dictators: one who believes his path to be the only one. He will die before surrendering. And the only person who can hope to stop him is an average-looking human woman with a fancy walking stick.

They battle in the Qunari style. One-on-one, winner takes all. It takes a pair of Qunari to hold Merrill back from leaping into battle at Hawke’s side. I wait on the sidelines with a heavy sword pinned against my throat. My heart pounds in my chest as I watch blades clash and blood fly.

Even with her magic, Hawke is woefully outmatched. She throws fireballs, bolts of lightning, and even swarms of magically-conjured insects. The Arishok shrugs them away with short huffs of irritation, looking no more threatened than if he was shooing away a persistently annoying moth. By comparison, every blow he manages to land against his opponent is a near-killing stroke.

Hawke staggers, her armored jacket’s chest plate nearly carved in two under a single blow. The next attack – a furious jab from the hilt of the Arishok’s axe – connects against her jaw with a sickening _crack._ Her head whips to the side, her body swiftly following suit, and she crashes to her knees, driven down by the force of the attack. The world seems to move in slow-motion as Hawke collapses onto all fours, blood dripping in sticky strands from her slack lips.

The Arishok hefts his axe and sword both, preparing to bring them both down into the woman’s unguarded back. Beside me, Merrill sucks in a shocked breath, preparing for the inevitable scream of dismay and loss that is about to tear itself from her throat.

But the blow doesn’t land. Hawke rolls to the side and the sharp blades clang hard against the tiled floor. The woman scrambles to her feet, bladed staff clutched tight in her hands, and attacks while the Qunari warrior is still off balance. She strikes forward, thrusting her weapon like a spear as a terrible cry of effort falls from her lips. Rage and desperation paint her every movement, as if this single lunge is the last act of defiance she is capable of showing.

The sharp bladed end of her staff pierces the Arishok’s abdomen. A deep _crunch_ echoes through the atrium of the palace. The gray-skinned Qunari stiffens, more out of shock than anything else. He looks down at the wound, at the sharpened steel blade sinking deep into his gut, at the blood that drips down around the blade. Everyone else stares with him.

For a moment it seems like everything in the world has frozen and all the air has been sucked out of the room. We’re all stuck there, watching dumbfounded at the spectacle unfolding before us: the human, quivering with equal parts exhaustion and fury, clutching tight to the spear that is embedded in the giant’s stomach. The giant looking down at the blade spearing through his stomach, his expression more one of confusion than pain.

Then fire blooms in the Arishok’s eyes. His sword drops to the ground as he reaches up and grabs Hawke by the throat with a hand larger than her head. The warrior hoists his attacker into the air, off her feet, and lets loose a roar that seems to shake the tiles beneath our feet. Hawke cries out, losing her grip on her staff as it is ripped away from her grasp.

In the next moment, the Arishok rears back. His razor-edged axe swings up. The moonlight catches on the sharpened spike that crowns the weapon a heartbeat before it is buried in Hawke’s stomach. Her armor, already weakened by battle, shatters with a resounding _crack_. A short spray of blood erupts from her, falling in a shimmering arc through the air before spattering the spotless tile far below her.

The silence is suddenly, terribly, nightmarishly broken. An agonized scream tears itself from Hawke’s throat as the spike burrows its way through her gut and out her back. She writhes, impaled on the weapon like a bug spit on a needle in some horrid collection. Merrill answers the scream with one of her own, reaching for Hawke with wide eyes already streaming with tears. The Arishok shakes his white-haired head and adds his voice to the din, arching his head to the ceiling and bellowing as loud as his impressive Qunari lungs will allow.

The woman falls limp, stuck like a kebab on the end of the Arishok’s axe. At the sight, the fire in the Qunari’s eyes finally dims and he distastefully throws Hawke’s body to the ground. The spike of his axe slides free with a sickening squelch and his opponent crumples, limbs limp and eyes closed. She does not move, even to breathe.

Now, I have been through many adventures, dearest reader. I’m far from unfamiliar with danger and have willingly – happily even – put my life in peril more times than I can count. But I’m no knight. I don’t charge into battle with a stout heart in my chest and heroic courage flowing through my veins. Because of this, I know a thing or two about fear. I know what it feels like to fear for your life. I know what it feels like to fear for the ones you love. And armed with that knowledge, I can honestly and without the faintest trace of doubt tell you that I have _never_ been as scared as I was at that moment.

Merrill screams Hawke’s name, trying to rush forward to her lover’s side. A burly Qunari grabs her about the waist and shoves her back into the group of captives. Undeterred, she scrambles back to her feet and tries again. This time the hilt of a sword connects with her tattooed forehead and she collapses to the floor with a whimper. I want to run to her side. I want to drag her away, hug her close, and pray that this is all a bad dream.

But I can’t. I just can’t.

All I can do is stand like a stump and watch, blood lurching like sluggish ice water in my veins as the Arishok turns away and, with a grunt, yanks Hawke’s staff from his gut. He raises it to his eyes, observing the weapon with a dark scowl on his square face. Then he grasps it tightly in his fists and snaps it in two like a twig.

“Look upon your champion,” he thunders, gesturing to Hawke still lying broken on the floor at his feet. “Look to her and know the fate that awaits all who defy the will of the Qun.”

A mournful wail begins the rounds through the ranks of prisoners. The folk of Kirkwall fall apart, spirits broken at the sight of their unexpected protector – their would-be champion – cut down so terribly. Merrill is openly weeping, her face buried in Fenris’ shoulder. The lanky, white-haired elf seems just as shocked and doesn’t move to push her away. Aveline stares at Hawke with wide eyes, face drained of all color. Sebastian has fallen to his knees, head bowed in desperate prayer. Anders argues with a Qunari that towers over him, demanding that he be allowed to help his friend. After all, the Arishok has already won, hasn’t he? Marian doesn’t need to die to prove a point already made.

But of all the companions, only I – the ever-faithful Varric Tethras – keep my eyes on Hawke. If I were a vain man, I would claim that I knew all along what was about to happen. If I were a prideful man, I would spin a yarn about how this was all a part of the plan.

I may be vain and I may be prideful, but I, dearest reader, am no liar. I had no clue what was about to happen. But I never looked away from Hawke, and so I saw her gasp, grimace, and weakly clench a single shaking fist.

Instantly a high-pitched tone – more of a shriek than a whine – overpowers the throngs of prisoners weeping and wailing in despair. The clamor dies slowly away as everyone, Qunari included, searches for the source of the mysterious sound.

The Arishok frowns and looks down at the fragments of the staff in his hands. He raises the top half, watching the amber-hued crystal at the head as it pulses and glows a bright, livid orange. The ear-piercing screech grows louder and louder as the glow similarly grows brighter and brighter.

Understanding flares in his dark eyes and he moves to throw the staff from his grip. Too late.

The crystal at the tip of the staff shatters in a burst of light and fire that consumes the Qunari warrior’s shocked face. He staggers away from the blinding blast, clutching at his eyes with an agonized roar. Half of his left horn has been vaporized by the explosion, and his face is charred and blackened.

Hawke struggles into a sitting position, nursing a roaring ball of fire between her palms. With a shout of rage, pain, and effort, she thrusts her hands forward and the fireball screams toward the Arishok. The Qunari, still recoiling from the explosion, can’t hope to move aside in time.

The fireball punches right through him, searing a hole through his gut as wide as my shoulders. He hunches, lips falling slack and bloodshot eyes stretching wide.

Silence reigns once more.

Then the Arishok staggers, hands clutched against his stomach. No blood pours from the wound; the heat of the fireball likely cauterized it as it tore through his body. He looks down with a low groan and his legs begin to shake.

All eyes are now fixed on him. The great gray titan staggers, holding out a hand to balance himself against the stairway at his back. He grasps at open air for a moment before his strength fails him and his arm falls limp against his side. His gasps wheeze up into the silent air as he struggles to draw breath. Then he tumbles to the ground with a crash that shatters the world, falling against the stairs and clutching at the hole where his stomach used to be.

Whispers begin to invade the hall. No one dares look away from him. He wrenches up, tries to rise back to his feet, then falls limp and simply stares up at the ceiling high above. His bloody lips shake and struggle to form words. When he finally manages to speak, his voice is a twisted, tortured gasp.

“One day…” he hisses, “we… we shall return…”

Then the light dies from the giant’s eyes and he slumps, dead, against the cold tile floor. Not ten feet away, Hawke’s eyes roll back in her head and she collapses in a similar fashion.

And that, dearest reader, is where our tale begins.

 

 


	2. Fever Dreams

The door to Anders’ clinic was almost knocked off its hinges, flapping inward and crashing hard against the wall. Sounds of commotion and shouting from outside swiftly invaded the sparsely-populated room within.

“Get her inside!”

“On the cot closest to the door! Hurry!”

“Shit, shit, shit…”

Anders was first, staff held at the ready in case of any surprises. He swept his weapon over the area, a furious scowl on his gaunt face, then motioned for the others to follow once he was sure the coast was indeed clear of Qunari, Templars, or other unsavory characters. Varric hurried behind him, wringing his hands and cursing incessantly as Merrill scampered inside behind him. Fenris was hot on her heels, carrying a limp and bloodstained body in his arms. And Aveline brought up the rear, still barking orders to the guards that had followed them all the way down to Darktown.

“I want  _hourly_  patrols combing the streets for any last pockets of resistance!” the tall woman was shouting. “If you even  _think_  you see horns, you attack first and ask questions later. We’re not losing any more people to those brutes tonight.”

“But Guard-Captain,” one of her subordinates said, “the Arishok is dead! Hawke killed him!”

“Oh! So I suppose that means the entire bloody army of horn-headed soldiers that followed him just have to pack up and leave, then? Because one mage killed one Qunari, the whole blighted mess is over?”

Aveline shoved the man’s shoulder, spinning him around to face the door. “You aren’t paid enough to think these things through, Wilkins. Just do your job and make sure the fighting is  _over_. I don’t care if you have to go toe-to-toe with the Arishok’s _ghost_ , you make sure that they don’t control even an inch of our city by dawn’s light. Am I understood?”

The guards obediently sprinted off to their assigned tasks with murmurs of ,”Yes ma’am,” and “Right away, Guard-Captain.”

Their passing revealed the three armored knights standing behind, swords and shields held at the ready. Their armor was torn, dirty, and splattered with both human and Qunari blood. But their drawn weapons – and the engraved Templar insignias on their breastplates – suggested they weren’t done fighting just yet.  
  
Merrill took one look at the trio, squeaked, and tucked herself away from sight behind the doorframe. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pressed against the wall and listened to the conversation taking place outside the clinic.

“Stand aside, Guard-Captain.” The Templar’s voice was low and gravelly, echoing within the confines of his heavy plate armor helmet. He stepped forward, obviously with the intent of entering the clinic. Yet Aveline replied exactly as Merrill prayed she would.

“No.”

“We know that Hawke woman is a mage. Champion or no, apostates are not tolerated in Kirkwall. Stand  _aside_.”

“ _No_.”

“Guard-Captain, you're a good woman. Don't make us do this.” The sharp sound of steel scraping free of a scabbard sliced through the chaos of the clinic. Merrill covered her mouth with both hands and begged the Creators to stop further bloodshed. Further inside, Varric glanced up with a steely look in his eye. He drew his crossbow into his arms, loaded and ready for battle. Everyone knew he would defend Hawke to the death if need be. Merrill hoped none of them would have to make such a decision again tonight.

“That woman in there just saved all of your wretched lives, Knight-Lieutenant.” There was an answering ring of a drawn sword from Aveline’s position. “And it’s possible she did so at the cost of her own. I will not let you prance in there and cart her off to the Tower like that sacrifice meant nothing.”

“You leave me no choice—”

A new voice cut in: smooth, cultured, and deeper than the offending Templar's. “Knight-Lieutenant Lorenz, stand down at once!”

Merrill hazarded a peek around the corner to see another group of battle-weary Templars approaching, led by a tall man with curly blond hair and a dusting of dark stubble across his chin. Though his armor was worn and scratched and his face was bruised and covered in blood, she recognized the man from his patrols around the alienage.

The other Templars obviously recognized him as well, for the Knight-Lieutenant stepped forward and protested, “Knight-Captain Cullen, we are well within our rights to—”

“This is a special case,” Knight-Captain Cullen interjected forcefully. “As are many things this night. I am no happier about it than you are, but I have orders from Knight-Commander Meredith herself to leave the Champion be.”

One of the Templars spat in the dirt. “Sod the Knight-Commander and her orders. We know the law. The fucking apostate can either come with us or get the brand like all the others.”

Cullen moved before even Merrill’s honed elven senses could react. He stepped forward and struck out with a powerful punch to the nose that flattened the offending Templar. The man crumpled with a shout, covering his face with both hands as he crashed into the dirt. The Knight-Captain leveled an accusing finger at the man, now hunched over on his knees before him, while the knights behind him drew their swords with menacing nonchalance.

“The city may be ablaze,” Cullen barked, “but you are still a  _Templar._  And that means you will  _follow orders_!”

He took a step forward, towering over the lieutenant. “Templars do not take matters such as this into their own hands, no matter how dire the circumstances. We serve the  _Chantry_ , not our own selfish hatreds. So you will stand up, you will remember your training, and you will realize that when a superior gives you an order, you  _obey!_ ”

The man clutched at his bleeding and broken nose for a few moments, then grudgingly nodded and choked out, “Y-yes, Knight-Captain.”

“Good.” Cullen rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and turned to Aveline. Merrill ducked back out of sight before anyone could see her spying.

“I apologize for the Knight-Lieutenant’s misconduct,” Cullen sighed from beyond the doorway. Merrill could hear the receding clank of armor plating; the hostile knights must be leaving. “I’ll station two loyal Templars outside to ensure there are no further interlopers to hinder Hawke’s recovery. I won’t try to guess how you know of this place, Guard-Captain, but you have my word that you and your friends will be protected.”

There was a long, suspicious pause from Aveline. “Why are you doing this?”

“I have no love for mages,” Cullen replied, his voice tight. “But I have my orders. And the new Champion saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives tonight. She proved herself in my eyes and in the eyes of the Knight-Commander.”

“So now what? You’re on our side?”

“For now. The Templar Order is not an easy one to impress, but Hawke has managed it. That comes with certain… amenities. We will discuss it further once the city is secure.”

Aveline slowly sheathed her sword. “Thank you, Knight-Captain.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” Cullen replied. ‘You have dangerous friends, Aveline. Much scrutiny will be placed upon them in the days to come. I urge you to remain cautious. Hawke will not be under our protection for long.”

Merrill peeked out again just in time to see Cullen bow stiffly at the neck. “There are matters I must attend to. Once order has been restored, I will return and personally see to Hawke’s safety.”

_You needn’t bother_ , Merrill thought.  _Marian will be back up and fighting again in no time. It'll all be all right._

She looked over her shoulder at Hawke, sprawled on the cot while Anders frantically worked over her. Blue-white illumination pulsed from his palms, bathing Hawke with healing light. Such magic, the kind that knit bones and sealed parted flesh, was extremely painful. But Hawke didn’t so much as flinch. She just… sat there, unmoving. Limp like a rag doll.

Merrill’s heart clenched and she closed her eyes, offering up yet another prayer; to the Creators, the humans’ Maker, or anyone else who may be listening.

_Please,_ she thought desperately. _Please, please let her be all right…_

Heavy boot steps signaled that Cullen had turned to leave, but not before yet another – though far more familiar – voice cut into the frantic atmosphere. The new voice, unlike Cullen’s deep and calm tenor, was tight with fear and dread.

“Where is she?”

She glanced around the corner to see Cullen hold out a hand to a Templar soldier storming toward them. The new Templar ripped his helmet off and let it clatter into the dust, revealing a square, chiseled face, tousled black hair, and cold blue eyes.

“Templar Hawke,” Cullen said forcefully. “You were ordered to remain on guard at the –”

Carver interrupted him again, his voice carrying a demanding authority Merrill had never before heard from the surly young man. “ _Where is my sister_?”

Cullen sighed, clearly realizing the futility of confrontation, and gestured behind him to the clinic. “Inside. You are relieved from duty until she is stable or you feel you are fit to return.”

Carver offered no thanks and simply pushed past the other knights, sprinting into the clinic. He was instantly at Anders’ side. Once she was sure the over-attentive Templars had left, Merrill was too.

Marian was lying on the cot, unconscious, with so much blood soaking her clothes they were stained black and sticky to the touch. She was bleeding from too many wounds to quickly count, and a gaping, gory puncture dominated her midsection. Merrill’s stomach churned just to see it, but she refused to look away. Her heart was hammering a relentless beat against her ribcage and in the lightheadedness of worry and adrenaline, she noted that Hawke’s face would look almost peaceful if not for all the blood staining it.

The woman’s chest rose and fell, so lightly that even Merrill’s sharp elven eyes strained to pick it out. Pale fingers twitched against the cot and her eyelids fluttered chaotically, revealing strips of bloodshot white whenever they opened enough to grant a glimpse at her eyes. Blood stained her lips, which Merrill gingerly dabbed away with the scarf she usually wrapped around her neck.  
  
 _The Arishok did this_ , she thought. _Did this to her with only a single blow._

She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the memory of the battle away. She never wanted to see that sight again, even in her mind's eye; a helpless Marian, screaming as the spike of an axe nearly as large as she was stabbed deep into her torso. Just the recollection of the tortured, agonized shriek that followed still left her shivering.

“Well?” Carver demanded of the mages that surrounded his sister. “What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to use a spell or something?”

Anders was working almost too quickly for Merrill to follow; sterilizing tools, setting aside gauze and thread, and pouring alcohol over his hands. He didn’t even bother to glance at Carver.

“Doesn’t work that way.”

“What do you mean,  _it doesn’t work that way_?” Carver snapped. “You’re the bloody healer! How are you going to—”

Anders whirled on him. Fury and fear burned in his blue eyes in equal measure.

“ _Look at her_!” the gaunt man shouted. “She has multiple lacerations and contusions, she’s bleeding internally  _and_  she’s suffering from concussion. Three of her ribs are fractured, as is her forearm, her collarbone, and her right leg. And that’s all without even touching on the  _massive gaping bloody hole in her stomach_!”

He spun back to Hawke and began to cut at her thick, armored robe, tearing it away in wide strips of leather to get at the wounds that lay beneath. “You think a fucking magic potion is going to clear all this up? Spells help, but they don’t do bloody  _everything_.”

Fenris sneered behind them, but folded his arms and mercifully said nothing. Aveline, meanwhile, nudged Varric and said, “Keep an eye on the door? Make sure the Templars standing guard outside mind their business and don’t get overly interested in what’s going on here.”

The stocky dwarf nodded, his teeth clenched so hard Merrill thought his jaw would break. Before he turned to leave, he put a hand on Hawke’s limp shoulder and squeezed.

“Hang in there, Marian,” she heard him murmur. “We’re not done with you yet.”

_No we’re not,_ Merrill thought. She reached out and clasped Hawke’s hand tightly in her own. It was limp, weak, and very cold. _We’re not done with you, Marian. Not by a long shot._

~~~~~~~~

Marian Hawke tumbled head-over-heels through the dark. Her mind whirled as sights, sounds, and sensations flashed around her. Coherent thought had long since fled, and in its place was chaos.

She saw Merrill, tears streaming down her face and smudging the light layer of makeup Isabela had taught her to apply. The image quickly dissolved, replaced by a trio of angry-looking Templars. They too were quickly lost in the maelstrom, smothered by shadows that clouded her vision. She felt her body jerking, as if something was tugging her in every direction at once, and a great rushing filled her ears. She was caught in the midst of a terrible windstorm, with no clear avenue for escape. Her entire was consumed with agony that came in harsh, staggering throbs, but no scream tore itself from her lips. There was no screaming here, no moving or even thinking. There was only the formless storm, the hazy prison of pain that held her captive.

Then, through the din, came a voice. It was deep and calm, bearing a strong, cultured-sounding Free Marcher accent. A man’s voice, and one that – even in the maelstrom – was almost familiar.

“ _Easy there, little Sparrowhawk. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”_

Hawke whirled and more images barraged her. The Arishok, the viscount’s headless corpse, Isabela’s distinctive blue bandana as she disappeared into the depths of Lowtown with the Qunari tome tucked under her arm. She saw Kirkwall burning, saw bodies clogging the once-busy and vibrant streets. She saw the moonlight glint off the razor edge of a Qunari battleaxe a moment before it pierced her gut and sent a fresh wave of suffering racing through her.

“ _Sparrowhawk_ ,” the man’s voice returned, “ _you’re going to have quite a tumble if you keep rushing about like that.”_

“ _I’m not a Sparrowhawk. I’m a dragon!_ ”

It was her voice she heard now, but at the same time it was not.Both familiar and foreign, it was too soft, too high in pitch and tremulous to her throbbing ears.

A deep, kindly chuckle from the man’s voice. “ _Don’t dragons usually breathe fire? And have great scaly wings?”_

“ _I can breathe fire!_ ”

“ _Oh, I know you can. But best not let your mother catch sight of you doing so. You may be a dragon, but she can be the fiercest of dragonslayers when she wants to be, believe me.”_

She arched her back as more images assaulted her. She saw the dragon, perched high above her on a cliff overlooking the battlefield. It spread its leathery scarlet-black wings and screeched, so loud the air seemed to shatter. The attacking darkspawn broke and fled, but not fast enough. While Mother wept over Bethany’s broken body, it swooped down low and torched the fleeing creatures with a roar.

The fire it belched into the air consumed her in its heat and its burning, crackling torment. Hawke groaned, echoing its roar with a feeble one of her own.

Another gentle chuckle from the disembodied voice. _“Easy, Sparrowhawk. Or am I to be the dragon’s dinner?”_

Her voice again. But again, not quite her voice. Too small. Too young to truly be hers. “ _You will if you don’t watch out!_ ”

“ _In that case, I’d best be moving on. Why don’t you go out and play for a bit? I’ll finish up supper in the meantime.”_

The thought stuck in Hawke’s brain like a thorn in her boot. “Go… go out and play. Go out and play…”

_Oh God_ , she thought, her first true thought since entering this hell. _Oh Maker, help me…_

She sucked in a lungful of fire and was lost to the maelstrom.

_~~~~~~~~_

The next moment she opened her eyes and the chaos was gone. The pain was gone. _She_ was gone. Instead there was only a simple rustic kitchen, stocked with fresh fish, vegetables, and other dried and preserved goods. The table was set for dinner with battered and makeshift cookware while a pot of soup bubbled over the fireplace. The sun was setting outside, painting the interior a beautiful orange-red as the last fading rays of daylight filtered through a small window slat in the wall.

Standing over the fireplace was a tall, muscular man in a sleeveless leather jerkin, stirring the pot of stew that was no doubt to be served for supper. A thick black beard, expertly groomed, graced his strong jaw, complimenting his equally jet-black hair. His eyes sparkled with a warm humor as he turned to face her; the same shade of steel gray as Marian’s own. He leaned against the mantle with a serious look and folded his arms, gesturing at her with the soup spoon.

“Now you stay in the yard, Sparrowhawk,” he told her. “The forest is no place for a little girl. It’s crawling with elves, werewolves, and manticores, you know.”

“Elves, werewolves, and manticores don’t frighten a mighty dragon!” Marian cried, spreading her arms and flapping them like wings. “I’ll burn them all to cinders!”

“Let’s pass on the cinders for today, darling,” the bearded man said with a smile, turning back to the soup pot. “Your mother just finished sweeping out the kitchen.”

“Yes, Papa.” Marian sighed. He was no fun anymore.

“Good. Now run along and I’ll call you when the soup is finished.”

Marian quickly sprinted outside, spreading her arms and letting out a high-pitched squeal that, to her ears, sounded every bit as powerful as a dragon’s roar. Her father watched her go, a smile curling his lips, then turned back to take care of supper.

Marian pounced at a pigeon outside the door, roaring and watching it burst into an indignant and noisy flight away from her and into the trees. She stomped after it, flapping her arms and imitating the thundering wingbeats of a great and mighty dragon.

“Flee feeble pigeon!” she cried. “ _Whoosh!_ You can’t stand against my power!”

But the pigeon just darted up into the trees and out of sight, hooting angrily all the way. She watched it go, a frown on her small, round face. When it didn’t reappear, she stamped her feet in the dirt and huffed, “Don’t fly away! I’m a dragon! You can’t just fly away from a dragon!”

The pigeon had obviously never heard of such a rule; it just disappeared into the trees with a rustle of leaves and a last indignant hoot in her direction. Marian waited for a few moments more with a tiny scowl, then stalked off with fists clenched. She quickly found a rock to kick at with one patched and ragged boot.

“Stupid pigeon,” she muttered, kicking at the rock and watching it skitter ahead of her, rustling the fallen autumn leaves in its path. “I wish there _were_ some elves around here. _They_ wouldn’t run from a dragon.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jerkin – which was as ragged as her boots – and huffed again. She could see her breath on the cool air, the chill seeping through her patchy coat as winter stretched its first icy tendrils over the forest. She cast one last glance over her shoulder in the direction of the defiant bird, then stalked off past the side of the house.

The house wasn’t anything special; a simple log cabin Papa had built just over two months ago. Hawke still remembered that day, watching as her father carved and assembled the trees with little more than his mind. He and Mother had debated the wisdom of using magic for hours before finally deciding that it was the quickest and safest way to find much-needed shelter.

She remembered how Papa had lifted his arms, cradling his hands into cups and carrying the great fallen logs in shimmering cradles of light. Hours he had worked, long into the night, while Marian huddled around a small campfire and Mother, her belly swollen with the unborn twins, had paced worriedly just beyond and kept an eye out for any unwelcome watchers. Marian could still remember the wonder at seeing her father’s magical powers first-hand.

Now, two months later, their hastily-erected cabin had become far more comfortable than those awkward first days. They had heat and straw beds and an actual table. Papa had even carved Marian a few wooden toys: a horse, a knight with drawn sword, and of course a dragon.

Still kicking at her unfortunate rock, she trudged around the trunk of a thick tree stump Papa used to chop wood for the fireplace. For this he had decided not to use magic and instead preferred an old, dull woodcutter’s axe he had bought from the village for far more than it was worth. They hadn’t eaten for three days afterward, but they had at least been warm.

It was far from uncomfortable in the rough-hewn cabin these days, but she still missed the old village. Everything was so _boring_ out here in the woods. It was pretty and there was no lack of wild creatures to observe (and occasionally chase into the trees). But there were no _people_ here.

She hadn’t had friends back in the village – they hadn’t stayed long enough to get to know the other children, like most of the villages they had called temporary homes – but she still missed the bustle. She missed the crowded markets, missed the kindly woman who had given her a tiny red handkerchief from the clothing stall; a handkerchief that was currently stuffed into her pocket as usual. She missed the cranky baker with the elven servant who would sneak Marian sweetrolls when her master was away.

She sighed and watched another puff of breath dissolve into the air. Her boots crunched on dead branches and fallen pine cones. A cadre of deer pricked their ears up at her approach and scattered deeper into the forest, flashing their snow-white tails as they went.

She’d never been to any kind of school, but she’d seen the other children in the village. She had fantasized what it would be like to join them, playing tag in the streets or pretending to be Grey Wardens and battling each other with sticks of wood. She wondered what it would feel like to be able to forget, even for a short time, that she wasn’t like those children. That she was far from what they considered “normal.”

She traded kicking her rock for kicking a dry pine cone; it was easier on the worn toe of her boot and the rock was beginning to hurt her toes. The pine cone was much better kicking fodder. She nudged it hard with her foot and watched it dance across the forest floor ahead of her.

The sad truth was that she wasn’t normal. She wasn’t normal and she never would be. Papa had told her that long ago, when her magic first began to manifest. It had been such a simple thing: they had been sitting at the table of their last house in the village. Marian had been poking at her supper with her spoon, moping at the bland and boring meal.

She still couldn’t explain what happened. She had simply been staring into the depths of her wooden bowl, grumbling about the tasteless mash set before her. Then there was a rumble over the air and her metal spoon had twisted into a neat figure-8.

All the color had instantly drawn out of Mother’s face and a tiny whimper fell from her lips. Her spoon had clattered into her bowl and she had clenched her trembling hands into fists on the tabletop. She hadn’t spoken, but her lips had mouthed the words, “ _Oh no_.”

But Papa… his reaction had been far worse. He hadn’t gone pale or dropped his spoon. He hadn’t pleaded for it to be untrue like Mother. He had simply sighed and pushed his bowl away, suddenly not hungry for the mash either. His steel gray eyes – the exact shade of Marian’s own – were very sad and _very_ tired. He seemed to have aged years in the span of only seconds.

She had never seen her father look so weak. So… defeated. And she never wanted to see it again.

She broke into a jog now, hopping up and planting her boots in a puddle and making the biggest splash she could manage. She giggled at the _cruch_ her boots made in the thin layer of ice, watching the sunlight dance off the airborne droplets of water her splash threw up. Then she found her pine cone again and set off once more into the forest. She knew Papa had forbidden her to go so far into the trees, but it was so _boring_ wandering around the same tiny clearing time and time again.

_After all,_ she thought, kicking her pine cone far off into the trees, _I’m a dragon. And no one tells a dragon what to do!_

Papa and Mother had argued after that first incident with the spoon. Oh how they had argued. She hadn’t understood all of what they were saying, their voices muffled behind the walls, but she had distinctly heard the words _apostate, Templars,_ and _all your fault_. Papa had said something about Mother _overreacting_ (whatever that meant) and told her that her fear would pass.

After the argument Papa had returned to the kitchen table, where Marian had been playing with her carved wooden horse. He had eased himself into the chair across from her with one of his kindest, warmest smiles.

“Can I talk to you, Sparrowhawk?”

She had continued playing with her horse. She’d known this talk was coming.

Over the course of the next few hours, Papa had told her all about magic and magic users. He had told her that her powers were a great gift and that they would help her do incredible things. He told her that she could use it to summon gouts of fire, manipulate the very essence of life and – one day perhaps – even transform her own body.

But he had also told her about the dangers of magic. He had told her about all the people who would want to harm her because of this so-called “gift”: the bounty hunters, the witch-burners, and most dangerous of all, the Templar Order. All would pursue her as they pursued him, and so she needed to be very careful with her newfound abilities.

_That’s why I want to be a dragon_ , she thought dejectedly. _No Templars have ever killed a dragon before! No bounty hunters would drive a dragon from its home!_

Not to mention the fact that dragons could _fly_. With their great, bat-like wings, they could soar to any place they wished. If she could transform into a dragon, like Papa’s stories about the Witch of the Wilds, she could go anywhere she wanted.

No more would she be confined to the dull tracts of this forest. She could soar away to her old village, to distant and exotic Val Royeaux, or even the great metropolis of Kirkwall. Mother had long claimed they had family there, had said she was born there and Papa too. She claimed her family still lived there and that Marian had an uncle who still called the city home. Marian hadn’t known any family besides her parents, so the thought intrigued her. Would these relatives be like her? Would they be magic-users as well? Would they sport the same steel-grey eyes and raven-black hair?

But these distant lands of Kirkwall and Orlais were beyond her grasp. It was unlikely that she would sprout wings and fly away so, for now, this dull forest would have to do.

“But,” she muttered to herself, eying her faithful pine cone, “that doesn’t mean I can’t still be a dragon!”

She dropped into a crouch, folding her arms tight to her chest and stomping forward with teeth bared.

“ _Rawr_!” She imagined the pine cone shivering in fright at her lumbering footsteps. “I’m coming for you! _Rawr_!”

The pine cone was too afraid to move.

“I’m a mighty dragon!” she cried, flexing her fingers and imagining them as long, razor-sharp talons. Her shoulders flexed as if spreading imaginary wings.

“I’m hungry, little pine cone!” she roared, “and I’m going to eat you up!”

She pounced, her boots crunching the cone against the forest floor. She quickly found it had been joined by others. The forest floor was _littered_ with the things, all of them just waiting to be felled by her draconic powers. She narrowed her gray eyes at the sight, a sly smile on her lips.

“So,” she said in her best impression of a dragon’s baritone thundering, “you’ve assembled an army to stop me? That won’t stop such a mighty dragon! Feel my wrath, puny mortals! _Rawr!_ ”

It was near-effortless; she threw her hands out and the air between her palms and the pine cones shimmered. A heat wave buffeted her face and the nearest pine cone began to glow red-hot around the edges. A second later it burst into flame with a tiny _pop_.

Marian’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands in delight. They _popped_! She hadn’t known they would pop!

She raised her arms again and flexed her fingers, summoning forth a pool of mana just like Papa had taught her. Two more cones to her left popped like corn kernels on a stove.

“See?” she laughed. “See what happens when you face a dragon? Burn, pine cones, burn!”

More cones crackled all around. _Pop, pop, pop_. She danced amid the cinders, hopping from foot to foot and throwing her hands out like she was batting away swarms of insects. Her magic grew stronger, until bolts of fire were flashing from her palms and consuming the forest floor all around her.

She laughed and finally let her hands fall to her sides. The cold breeze quickly snuffed out the embers, leaving the forest floor smoking and charred all around. Sweat beaded her forehead both from the heat and the exertion of using mana, and she wiped it away as she surveyed her handiwork. Not bad for a dragon. That said, she still wasn’t as strong as her father. Not yet. _He_ could have set this entire forest ablaze if he wanted to. She, by comparison, was worn out after throwing a few tiny balls of sparks.

“Whew,” she finally breathed. “And _that_ , you silly pine cones, is why you don’t mess with a dragon.”

Behind her, a branch snapped.

She whirled with a very un-dragon-like squeak, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. Her heart leaped into her throat and every inch of her body felt like it had been plunged into ice. Someone was standing there, between the trees, and she hopped back a few steps in shock.

It was a man, standing some distance away beneath the shade of a towering conifer tree. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long black hair and a thick beard. A pocked, melted-looking scar disfigured part of his face. He was built like the pictures of the great warriors in her storybooks. And he was wearing the most beautiful armor Marian had ever seen. It was covered in elegant swoops and engravings, every plate polished to such a sheen that it caught the rays of the sun until it shimmered. A thick scarlet cloak was wrapped around his shoulders and his legs were protected by a series of thick leather drapes and tassels that fluttered sluggishly in the cool forest breeze. Emblazoned across his chest was the engraved image of a flaming, downturned sword.

A _Templar_ sword.

Marian took a step back, eyes wide and never leaving the insignia on his chest. She had never seen a Templar in real life before; Papa had very purposefully settled in villages with no local Templar presence. She’d heard his stories of course. And she could easily say that this man was at once more beautiful and more terrifying than any of Papa’s tales.

She took a step back, her boots crunching on scorched pine cones, now long forgotten.

“Please…” she whimpered, holding a hand out. “Please, I didn’t mean to…”

With slow and guarded movements, the man reached down to his belt and grasped the pommel of his sword. It scraped free of its scabbard with a dull, metallic rasp. Then his lips formed the terrifying word, the word that meant death for her and everyone like her.

“ _Apostate.”_

Marian didn’t bother pleading for mercy any longer. She simply turned and sprinted as fast as her little legs could carry her, deeper into the suddenly dark and unforgiving forest.

 


	3. Blood and Screams

Anders worked tirelessly through the night, not stopping for food or water until absolutely necessary. On those rare occasions when he stopped for breath he was pale and bathed in clammy sweat. He had to use a mix of both magic and conventional medicine and it was obvious that the combination was taking a toll on him.

Merrill was always right by Hawke’s side, determined not to leave her in such a state. While Anders worked to seal the puncture wound in the mage’s stomach, Merrill helped by handing him surgical tools and keeping Marian calm and unconscious with a steady flow of sleeping magic.

The others had dispersed in the aftermath of the battle with the Qunari. Aveline had returned to the Viscount’s Keep with a contingent of City Guard and several angry-looking Templars. Fenris had stalked off a while ago with no explanation or even a word of farewell. Surprisingly, Carver had refused to leave his sister’s side. He was currently sitting on a crate just inside the door, scowling at his armored boots with his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Varric had also decided to stay. He was currently occupying a seat near the door – a post he had refused to abandon with his unstoppable dwarven tenacity – and was tinkering with Bianca. The crossbow was casually splayed across his lap as he tightened the bowstrings and calibrated the weapon’s sights.

To the observer, he seemed as laid-back as ever. But Merrill didn’t miss the way he had managed to subtly place himself between the Hawke and the Templars standing guard outside. She knew the positioning was deliberate. If something happened and the knights tried to attack, they’d have to go through him first.

For a long time, she kept focused on helping Anders in his ministrations. But she also knew the question on everyone’s mind and needed it answered as much as the others. She bit her lip, hesitating for only a moment before worked up the courage to break the silence.

“Is she going to be all right?”

Anders shook his head and wiped his brow with a forearm. The motion smeared a dark streak of Hawke’s blood across his face, as his arms were bloodied almost to the elbow. He then set to work once more, crouching low over a simple needle and thread.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Her wounds are severe. If this were anyone else, I would say they were lethal. How Hawke is still alive is a miracle. I don’t know how she withstood this much for so long.”

Merrill knew exactly how Marian was still alive. She was _strong_. Stronger than anyone else in Kirkwall. She’d recover from this and come back stronger than ever before. It was what she did.

“I’ve managed to stop most of the external bleeding and reset her broken bones with magic,” Anders continued. “I think I can even seal this bloody stab wound, but it’ll take time. Time we don’t have.”

“And why isn’t she awake? She wasn’t awake even before I started with the sleeping magic.”

“There’s blood pooling in her skull. A side-effect of her concussion.” He sighed and wiped his forehead again, further smearing it with dark red. “Unfortunately, that’s beyond my capacity to heal. She may recover, but…”

“But what?”

“If she doesn’t recover soon, she may wake up with memory loss, paralysis, or major brain damage. She may never wake up.”

“And there’s nothing you can do?”

Anders’ jaw tightened. “Nothing.”

“If need be,” a deep voice said from the direction of the door, “I can have the best healers of the Kirkwall Circle in this clinic within the hour.”

Anders glared at the newcomer. “Accompanied by an entire retinue of Templar guards? No thank you, _Knight-Captain_.”

Cullen strode through the door, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His armor was splattered with now-dry blood and his face was drawn tight and haggard. He looked like he’d been fighting for years, but he was somehow – miraculously – still on his feet.

“I would say that it is good to see you again, Anders,” Cullen said, nodding to the fair-haired mage in greeting. His tone was friendly, but the tense set of his jaw suggested he was far from pleased to see the man again. “But it would sound like a lie to both our ears.”

“What do you want?”

“Knight-Commander Meredith wishes to ensure Hawke’s speedy recovery, but there are few Templars in the city that can be trusted with her safekeeping.” He frowned and folded his arms over his sword. “I am apparently one of the trustworthy ones.”

Anders snorted. “Surprising, considering you were the one screaming _kill all mages_ after that debacle at the Ferelden tower.”

“I would… prefer not to be reminded of that time.”

“And you expect me to believe that you’ve seen the error of your ways? That you’re a changed man?”

“I expect nothing of you,” Cullen said with a deep scowl, “besides your continued focus on Marian Hawke’s recovery.”

Anders snorted, but returned to his work. He was scowling and turning a deep, angry red, but he didn’t press the issue further. Merrill was glad; she wanted all his attention focused on Hawke.

Cullen moved on, ambling through the clinic with feigned nonchalance. Merrill, however, could not miss the fact that his hands never strayed from their seemingly casual resting place on the hilt of his sword. He knew he was an outsider here, and was obviously taking adequate precautions should things turn sour.

Varric noticed it too. From his position by the door, he raised his head and called, “You can calm down, Curly. No one’s going to jump you down here. In case you hadn’t noticed, we have more important things on our minds.”

“I…” Cullen frowned, but did not move his hands from his weapon. “I apologize. Old habits die hard, as they say.”

“You do realize that there are two Templars just outside?” Varric reminded him. “Even if we wanted to kill you, your cronies would be in here before we could finish the job.”

The Knight Captain rubbed at his forehead. “I appreciate your candor, Master Tethras, and I applaud your tactical appraisal of the situation. But I tell you again, I am not here to harm you. Knight-Commander Meredith simply wishes Hawke to recover in a safe and timely manner.”

“And why, exactly, is that?”

“Besides the fact that Hawke has been declared the Champion of Kirkwall?” Cullen shrugged. His armor creaked wearily as he did. “She saved the city in a very daring – and very _public_ – act of heroism.”

Varric laughed. “Ah, so _there_ ’s the real truth. You can’t cart her off to the Circle because she’s exploded into the public eye now. She’s famous, and the good people of Kirkwall won’t stand for their new Champion being executed for apostasy.”

Cullen glared at him, but said nothing to deny the accusation. This only made Varric laugh harder; a hard, scornful laugh very unlike the usual warm chuckle Merrill so enjoyed.

“And I bet that’s the same reason the rest of us aren’t being carted off the executioner’s block for either being or harboring apostates? It’s too _public_ for the Templars to get their hands dirty?” He shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day I was thankful for this city’s hypocrisy.”

“You should be more thankful, dwarf.” Cullen scowled at him. “That _hypocrisy_ has ensured that you and your allies are not only free of Chantry retribution, but are safeguarded by the very institution that would have punished you. Not everyone is so fortunate.”

“Right. Because I feel _very_ fortunate with two armed and armored thugs hanging just outside, watching our every move.”

Merrill wanted to interject and tell them to stop fighting. After all, Marian was still hanging on to life by the tiniest, frailest thread. They had more important things to worry about than petty squabbles and Kirkwall’s seemingly ever-present discriminations.

But she didn’t stop them. She didn’t want to. She found herself agreeing with Varric, with his scorn and contempt for the handsome, curly-haired knight that had forced his way into their midst.

Merrill was an apostate. So were Anders and Marian and a number of others they had encountered over the course of their adventures. Many of her personal friends outside of Hawke’s circle were secretly apostates or soothsayers, and many of those friends had met swift and brutal Chantry justice. Anders’ friend, Karl, had been branded with the Mark of Tranquility years ago. He had been magically crippled, his emotions excised forever, simply for being too outspoken about mage rights.

The Templar Order’s mandate was to keep the peace between mages and “normal” folk. Recently, they had also begun to keep order on the streets, patrolling where the City Guard could not or would not go. Merrill knew the stabilizing effect their polished armor and razor-edged swords could bring and was thankful. She could only imagine how many times she’d been spared from bandits or thieves simply because of a Templar’s presence nearby.

But she also knew that the Templars could also be power-hungry madmen, willing to cut down or Tranquilize anyone who posed a potential threat. Marian Hawke and her apostate friends definitely counted as a _very_ extreme threat.

They were under Templar protection for now, when they were city heroes and too popular to be imprisoned or executed, but what would happen when that fame faded? Would the Templars move in then? Would they kick down her door in the alienage, set Anders’ clinic ablaze, and drag Aveline from her office in chains? When their popularity disappeared – as popularity with the masses always inevitably did – would they soon disappear as well?

The fact that Merrill was even entertaining the idea was too worrisome for her taste.

 _I wish_ … she bit her lip, willing herself not to stray too close to such dangerous thoughts. But, as always, her mind raced ahead of her self-control, and she found herself thinking, _I wish Isabela was still here._

Of all her companions, Merrill was sure she was the most shocked at the rogue’s betrayal and sudden disappearance from their midst; part of her still didn’t believe the dark-skinned swashbuckler was truly gone. Part of her still believed that she would come swaggering through Anders’ door at any minute now, sword in one hand and a bottle of dwarven whiskey in the other.

But the door didn’t open. Isabela had been faced with a choice: stay and help undo the damage she herself had caused, or disappear into the wind and never look back. She had obviously chosen the latter. She had chosen to run, chosen to save her own skin over saving Kirkwall, over helping Hawke, over…

 _Over me,_ she thought, tears welling up in her eyes. _I thought we were friends, ‘Bela and I. Good friends even. But I guess…_

 _No_ , she suddenly thought, interjecting her own mind. _I can’t think about that. Not now. There will be plenty of time to throw blame around later, but right now I have more important matters facing me._

She quickly forced her intruding thoughts away, taking a deep and shaky breath before squeezing Hawke’s cold hand tighter. Isabela was gone, but Marian was still here, still whole, and – for the moment – still alive. The human mage needed her more than Isabela apparently did.

So she didn’t interrupt Varric and Cullen as they bickered over the fate of the city’s savior. She didn’t think any more about Isabela or her cowardly flight from the city. She just turned back to Hawke and continued her flow of sleeping magic, making sure the raven-haired woman neither felt nor heard her world crumbling around her.

~~~~~~~~

Marian sprinted through the trees, breath coming in sharp, pained gasps. Her patchy boots splashed through a puddle, soaking her legs in cold, fetid-smelling water. Her heart was thudding a rapid staccato rhythm against her ribs, climbing further into her throat with every heavy bootstep she heard behind her.

A sword hissed through the air just above her head. She ducked and yelped in fear, swerving around a tree trunk to throw off her pursuer. Her body was smaller and faster than that of her pursuer, not bogged down by size and heavy plate armor, but his legs were longer and he seemed driven by inhuman speed and stamina. No matter how fast she willed her legs to carry her, the knight was always right behind. He was breathing hard, his boots pounding inelegantly against the cold forest floor at her heels, but he wasn’t slowing down.

“Stop!” the man barked. His voice echoed in the confines of his helmet like the vengeful voice of a demon. He sounded as if he was speaking from right over her shoulder. “In the name of the Chantry, I order you to surrender!”

She knew what would happen if she surrendered. Papa had told her what the Templars did to mages who _surrendered_. How they used arcane powers to root around in a mage’s head and rip away everything a person treasured, and how the so-called “Rite of Tranquility” produced not peaceful and serene mages but empty husks of men and women who didn’t even have the capacity to know they were broken.

She would die before she let that happen to her.

She cried out as the sword sliced through the air again, so close to her scalp that she could almost feel the polished blade pass through her hair. She hunched her head and doubled her pace, frantically tearing through the forest. Branches whipped past her, batting at her face and shoulders like claws. She was pretty sure one particularly spiny pine branch sliced open her cheek, but the pain only spurred her onward.

Balling her fist, she summoned as much mana as she could manage and forced it over her shoulder, straight at what she could only assume was the man’s helmeted head. The forest floor quivered around her and a pinecone shot like an arrow through the air. A half-second later she heard a soft thud as it bounced harmlessly off metal armor. The man grunted – more in surprise than fear or pain – but didn’t pause in his relentless pursuit.

Marian threw herself into a tight turn, racing around the thick trunk of a tree, and tried again. This time three pinecones hit her pursuer with a soft _pat pat pat_. She gasped in frustration and thought, _Come on! What would Papa do? He wouldn’t throw measly pinecones at him! He would… he would…_

Her tiny face scrunched up in concentration. Her lungs sucked in a long breath and she reached deep inside, deeper than she had ever allowed herself to draw before. Papa had told her never to reach so far, to never wake the slumbering power waiting within her. He claimed it would draw too much attention and expend too much energy. He claimed she wasn’t ready yet. But she had no choice.

She could feel it; a bottomless well of mana buried deep within her. It was cool and calming, like the glassy surface of a lake at night. She drew on the feeling, letting it surge up within her. Newfound strength flooded through her body and she found herself slowly – ever-so-slowly – drawing ahead of the Templar at her back.

As soon as she had put enough distance between them, she skidded to a halt. With the icy flood of mana roaring through her system, she turned and raised both her trembling hands. Her eyes fluttered closed and she summoned all her courage in a single gasping breath. Instantly she felt her mana billow within her, a rising cloud of fire that filled her with newfound strength and courage.

 _I can do this,_ she thought, heart still racing in her chest. _I know I can. I’m a dragon. I’m a dragon!_

She saw the Templar looming over her, a monolith of steel and blood-red silk. She saw his face twisting into a mask of hatred behind the visor of his helmet. She saw the setting sun glinting off his polished armor, now scuffed here and there with sap from Marian’s tiny pinecone projectiles. She saw his sword, rising up for an inevitable killing stroke.

Marian saw all of this. And she hated everything she saw.

With a scream, she thrust both hands toward him, palms out. There was a flash of light and a fountain of sparks erupted from both hands, enveloping the Templar. He finally stopped, staggering away with a shout of surprise. Marian didn’t give him time to recover; if he recovered, she was dead. Instead, she gritted her teeth, narrowed her eyes to tiny slate-gray slits, and took a step toward him.

The sparks roared out, embers lighting little fires in the brittle leaves at her feet. The swift flash of light flickered through the sunset-painted woods and cast twisting shadows across the forest floor. The stuttering pop and rumble of the spray echoed through the woods, frightening birds into flight high above them.

“Leave me alone!” she shouted over the noise. The Templar arced back, buckling beneath the force of her attack. “Just go away!”

But then he looked to her and rose to his feet again, fighting against the stream of hissing fire. His face was twisted into a horrifying mask of pain and hatred, all directed at her, and despite the warm current of magic buffeting her face and the hot sparks pouring from her palms, Marian’s entire body went cold. It felt as if she had been plunged deep into icy water.

The Templar struck too fast to dodge this time. His shining sword carved through the spray of sparks and caught her in the shoulder, almost too quick to see. There was a sharp stab of pain in her arm and a splash of blood spattered the leaves at her feet. She was yanked to one side by the blow and her sparks vanished with a _pop_. Within a moment, all her newfound strength and power blinked out of existence and she was left frightened, defenseless, and _very_ weak.

She staggered away, holding her hand against her sticky and bloodied shoulder. The Templar stepped toward her.

 _No, no, no…_ she thought, her eyes wide and terrified. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion now. She knew she was about to die, knew these were the last moments she would ever see. And there was nothing she could do about it.

The blade began to rise again. It arced up into the air high over the Templar’s head, catching the last glinting rays of the setting sun. Marian opened her mouth to scream, certain that death descended with that blade. Then, as quickly as it struck the first time, the sword flashed down.

The world exploded.

Marian was instantly plunged into darkness as an excruciating hook of hyper-focused agony carved its way across the side of her face. Everything around her went white. A concussive jolt hit the back of her neck and her heart dropped into her stomach. Nausea overwhelmed her, and she suddenly felt an aching throb in her backside and leaves in her hair; she had fallen to the forest floor.

Then the anguish consuming her face blotted out all other sensations. White-hot and ice-cold in unison raced through every facet of her existence, a frigid wildfire with snowflakes instead of sparks. It felt as if some great and angry beast had hooked its talons beneath the flesh of her cheeks and was doing its best to wrench her face in half. She could hear herself screaming, could feel blood soaking her right cheek. But when she tried to open her eyes, a fresh wave of torment washed over her.

 _I don’t know what happened_ , she thought, her mind chaotic and unfocused. She could still hear herself screaming, but her voice echoed to her as if from down a long and darkened tunnel. The world around her remained unfocused, frightening, and in constant searing torture.

_Am I dead? I can’t tell. What did he do to me?_

She tried to bring her hands to her face, felt them come away sticky with blood. Too much blood. The feel of it, wet against her palm, dripping down her wrist and between her fingers, only served to drive home her helpless state. She tried to open her eyes but the weak motion only served to stoke the frigid fire that still ate away at her face.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

She heard heavy bootsteps approaching, crunching against the fallen leaves and pine cones. She heard that glimmering sword hum as its razor-honed edge caught the air. She heard the Templar’s heavy breathing and the scrape of his armor as he raised the sword over his head once more. This time, the blow would finish her. She was strangely ready for it too. Anything was better than this, the blind wailing agony into which she had fallen. Death would be a mercy, delivered by this hateful knight in his beautiful armor.

But the sword never came down. Instead, a deep and booming voice, as loud and powerful as the bellow of a bear, interrupted the Templar’s advance.

“ _STAY AWAY FROM HER!”_

The Templar froze in place, taken aback by the sheer hatred and vitriol in that commanding voice. Marian managed to inch her eyelids open the tiniest bit, even as writhing, stabbing pain raced through the muscles of her face once more.

Through blurry, gray-tinged vision, she saw the Templar lower his sword and turn away from her. He clutched the weapon close to his chest, preparing to strike at something in that direction. He had barely moved before a bright flash of light consumed him. When it faded, half his sword arm was missing.

The man staggered back, clutching at the smoking stump that – until only seconds ago – had been his arm. He screamed with a desperate, warbling wail that Marian found strangely pathetic. The man had suddenly joined her in her pain. They were falling together through a shared world of torture. She did not feel sorry for him.

Then there was another flash and the Templar was forcefully shoved away from her and off his feet. Part of his glistening, embossed chest plate was now melted away, revealing charred and mutilated flesh beneath.

More bootsteps, near her head this time. Marian could still hear herself shrieking in pain, but in her current state, strangely divorced from the anguish of her situation, she saw a man step into her narrowed field of view.

_Papa!_

Malcolm Hawke advanced on the Templar with all the power and rage of an approaching thunderstorm. Blue light poured from his eyes, magical discharge wafting up into the air like thin tendrils of colored smoke. An unnatural wind buffeted him, wildly tossing about his hair and beard. He seemed larger and stronger than Marian remembered, the muscles along his arms rippling powerfully as he raised a clenched fist. Balled within his palm was a crackling, twisting orb of fire.

And when his lips parted, Malcolm Hawke did not speak. He roared.

“ _YOU WILL NOT HAVE HER_!”

His bellow echoed through the trees, drowning out even Marian’s tortured wails. He drew his hand back, preparing to unleash another devastating bolt of magic. The Templar backed away, stretching out his single remaining hand in a pitiful expression of submission and surrender.

“Wait!” the man cried. “Wait—”

Malcolm Hawke did not wait. He thrust his arm toward the man and there was yet another flash of light. This time, Marian was able to see what was happening in vivid detail.

Though he prided himself on being a well-rounded and multitalented mage, Malcolm Hawke’s true knack lay in the manipulation of fire. He was a pyromancer, the same as his daughter. In the face of her impending demise, Marian Hawke had summoned a weak spray of sparks to defend herself. Faced with the same fate, Malcolm Hawke summoned an inferno.

A crackling, roiling pillar of fire erupted from the palm of his hand. It was far too fast for the Templar to even hope to dodge it. It roared through the cold autumn air, aim straight and true. Marian felt a hitch in her stomach, a strange lightheaded shock, as she realized that the Templar was about to die.

Fire consumed him. When the ensuing flash of light and smoke faded, the armored knight no longer had a head. His body remained standing for a few moments, twitching as if in shock at the sudden loss. Then, with a clatter of armor plating, the headless and armless corpse tumbled to the ground and did not move again.

The forest fell silent. Like all of creation was suddenly holding its breath.

There was a slow-building rushing sound, like rising wind through a cavern entrance. A moment later, all sensation suddenly flooded back. Marian was wracked by an agonizing lance of pain down the right side of her face once more, her skull ripped in half by a wash of fire that burned as hot as that which had ended the knight’s life. Her shrieks and wailing returned, even louder than before.

Her father was instantly kneeling at her side, pulling her bloodied hands away from her face. She struggled, writhing on the ground and clutching at her cheeks.

“Marian,” he grunted, grabbing at her wrists. “Marian… you need to let me _see_ , Sparrowhawk!”

Even in her agony she could tell he was afraid. She could hear it in his voice, the way it trembled dangerously with unshed tears. She could feel it in the way his hands were shaking, in how pale he was. She knew it wasn’t from magical exertion.

“Papa,” she whimpered, “Papa, it hurts. It _hurts_!”

“I know,” he replied, his voice breaking now. “I know, Sparrowhawk. But you need to let me—”

He finally succeeded in pulling her hands, now wet with her own blood, away from her face. As soon as he did, he froze. She heard him murmur, “Maker’s breath…”

Seconds later she was being scooped up in his powerful arms. Her cries didn’t stop, but he no longer tried to hush her. He just took off into the forest, cradling her close and letting her scream.

“Come on,” he whispered to her, his tone tight and afraid. “Come on, my little Sparrowhawk. I’m taking you home.”

~~~~~~~~

Marian’s wails of pain had faded into agonized little whimpers and exhausted sniffles by the time her father kicked open the door to the cabin. Blood now covered her face, spurting in dark scarlet streams down her cheeks to mix with her tears. Only her left eye, untouched by the Templar’s sword, was moving properly, rolling and squeezing shut in pained shock. The other seemed frozen, the lid unable to close and her sight consistently black on that side.

Marian’s head was still spinning as her father used a telekinetic push to shove the supper dishes off the table. He ignored the ensuing crash of broken tableware and laid her down, cradling her head with one hand. She didn’t resist and no longer clutched at her face. The tips of her fingers were strangely numb, tingling as if she had been sitting on them for too long.

“P-Papa,” she gasped. “Papa?”

He shushed her. “Try not to talk. You’ve been badly hurt, but I’m going to help you.”

Marian’s felt nausea building in the pit of her stomach again. She had vomited twice on the way home, bile spewing from her lips and staining the front of both her and her father’s jerkins.

She didn’t vomit this time. She doubted she had the strength to do anything more than shiver. She was cold, like she had been out playing Snowballs in winter. It only made the pain all the more dreadful.

“P-Papa,” she whimpered, forgetting his order to stay quiet. “W-what did he do to me?”

“Nothing, if I have anything to say about it,” Malcolm growled. He stuck his head out the kitchen door and shouted, “ _Leandra_!”

He turned back to her, a tight set to his bearded jaw. He cracked his knuckles and the bones in his neck, then spread his hands out over her. He closed his eyes and a moment later Marian was bathed in blue-white light. She instantly felt as if she had been plunged into icewater, though this was very different from the awful hot-cold unity of the pain. This was slower and calmer, more like opening a window in winter than being consumed by frigid flame. Her shocked gasp was all but snatched from her lungs by the chill, dying to a breathless groan as frost began crawling through her veins.

“Stay still, little Sparrowhawk,” her father grimaced. Marian tried, but could only squirm under the uncomfortable wash of magic. “This will help, I promise.”

Mother appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and face pale. She took one look at her daughter lying on the table and her hands flew to her mouth.

“Oh, my darling _Marian_ ,” she cried, flinging herself forward. Malcolm caught her by the shoulders and pushed her back. The magic died and Marian gasped as the icy flow ebbed away.

“What’s happened?” Mother demanded. “Who did this to her?”

“A Templar,” her father grunted. “I don’t know why he was this deep in the forest. He’s been dealt with. Leandra, I know it looks bad, but I need you to—”

Mother moaned, her eyes wide in shock. “Maker, what happened to her _face_?”

Marian’s blood ran – if possible – even colder. She tried to reach up to touch her throbbing face, but couldn’t summon the strength to raise her arm even an inch from the table. When she spoke, her voice quivered in terror.

“P-Papa,” she said again. “What did he do to me? What did he _do_?”

Malcolm spun back to her and resumed his magical healing surge. The pain eased back a little, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Marian—”

“What did he _do_ to me?!”

He grimaced, obviously not comfortable with telling her. Then he reached down and clasped her tiny, shaking hand with his much larger, rougher one. When he spoke, his voice shook dangerously. That alone scared her more than anything else so far. Was it really so terrible? Did she even _have_ a face left after such an attack?

“He caught you in your temple, Marian. The blade bit deep; it cut down through to the bone and destroyed your right eye.”

“M-my…” Marian’s breath caught in her throat. “ _What_?”

He squeezed her hand. “I can ease the pain and seal the wound. I may even be able to repair your eye. But you need to lay back and _trust me_. Can you do that, Sparrowhawk?”

Her lips quivered and her fingers tightened against the rough surface of the tabletop. Her eye was gone? Was that why her vision was dark on her right side? What if it stayed that way? What if the other eye followed suit? What if—

Papa’s voice again, firmer now. “Do you trust me, Marian?”

For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. The pain still crept through every facet of her waking consciousness, tearing its way through her mind and body both. But then she nodded and closed her one remaining eye. She felt her father’s calloused fingers brush the hair from her bloodstained forehead. Then there was another icy jolt of magic and she fell into a numb, dreamless sleep.

 


	4. Skin Deep

**Anders’ Clinic**

“You don’t have to be here.”

Merrill started and sat up in her seat. The world around her was hazy and unfocused, and her eyelids felt heavier than Bianca the time Varric let her hold the crossbow. A dull, throbbings ache had settled into the back of her neck, which she massaged with the heel of her palm. Had she been sleeping?

She looked down and found that she had indeed been sleeping, slumped over against Hawke’s cot and still holding tight to the human’s hand. Hawke herself remained unconscious, though it seemed that Anders had finished his surgeries for the time being. Most of Marian’s smaller wounds now were sealed either by magic or everyday stitches. The gaping wound in her chest had been stitched closed and covered with a strange, plaster-like poultice. It had obviously sealed the wound; Marian was breathing deeply and calmly now with no magical assistance.

Merrill shook her head and looked for the speaker. It didn’t take long to find Carver sitting nearby with his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He looked up at her, with a gaze that looked as tired as Merrill felt. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was wild and unkempt, dotted here and there with telltale flecks of blood from earlier fighting.

“You don’t have to be here,” the young man repeated. “You can get some sleep in a proper bed. Marian hasn’t so much as moved over the past hour.”

She sighed and rubbed at her tired eyes. She hadn’t slept long, or all that soundly. Still, the thought of leaving the clinic made her skin crawl. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until she wakes up.”

“The mage…” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “I mean, _Anders_ said she wouldn’t wake for a long time. Something to do with a relaxation hex to keep her calm. You have time to get some rest.”

Merrill narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you suddenly so concerned? I thought you didn’t want anything more to do with Marian. Or me, for that matter.”

The last time they had met face-to-face, Carver – who had been drunk – had drawn his longsword on his sister and tried to attack her, blaming her for their mother’s murder. He’d been determined to turn his apostate sister over to the Templars or, failing that, finish her off himself. Only a combined effort from Merrill, Isabela, and Bodahn Feddic had kept the young Templar from killing his own sister. And it had taken all three to subsequently keep Marian from doing the same to her brother.

Once the weapons had been taken away, Carver and Marian had gone their separate ways for good. But now, the young Templar shook his head and clasped his hands tighter in his lap. His lips were pressed into a thin, tight line and when he spoke, his voice was tight and barely-controlled.

“Those were…” his voice shook, “different times. I won’t apologize, but I also won’t… I won’t abandon her. Not this time.”

Merrill’s expression softened against her will. Carver glanced at her, then back down at his boots. His cheeks warmed with shame. After a while, he awkwardly cleared his throat and said, “I want to know. What happened to her? I’ve heard the stories, but—”

“The Arishok,” Merrill interrupted. “They were fighting. He… he stabbed her. It was horrible.”

His eyes wandered over his sister’s assorted wounds, his gaze darkening. “I’ll bet. But she won anyway?”

“She used a fireball spell. Blew right through him. It was… also horrible.”

Carver shook his head with a sudden scowl and stood from his seat. “Andraste’s tits, why does this keep happening? Every time something bad happens, Hawke blood is spilled. Blights, Ogres, serial killers, and now _this_?!”

He kicked his crate over in a sudden display of violence. Merrill jumped and squeezed Hawke’s hand tightly. The woman didn’t make any motion in acknowledgment of her touch.

But Carver was already done. His head was bowed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His hands were clenched into tight, shaking fists. When he spoke, it sounded as if he had just run a marathon.

“I should have…” there was something small in his voice, something twisted and wrangled that he clearly didn’t want to let out. Merrill thought she spotted a tear making its way down his cheek. He sniffed and quickly rubbed his eyes, masking it from view. “I should have been there. I should have _been_ there.”

“It wouldn’t have helped,” she murmured, glancing at Marian’s pale face. “The Arishok fought her alone. If you had tried to join the battle, the Qunari would have killed you. I know. I tried to help her, too.”

She gestured to the bruise on her forehead, the imprint of the hard hilt of a Qunari sword. Carver glanced at it over his shoulder, then shook his head and turned back to her again.

“It’s not the same. I wasn’t there for Bethany, wasn’t there for Mother…” he glanced back at her. “I’m her _brother_. We should have faced the Arishok together.”

“Lots of things should have happened tonight,” Merrill said, her thoughts drifting back to Isabela. “But they didn’t. You can’t change that.”

“Fat lot of good that does her,” he said, gesturing to his sister.

“We can’t change the past, Carver,” Merrill insisted. “I… know that better than most. No matter how much we might want to, we can’t look back at times like this. All we can do is keep moving forward and try not to make the same mistakes twice.”

“But she could _die_. And I-I would never get to tell her…”

He sighed explosively and threw himself back onto his crate. His hands burrowed in his hair, his back hunched. He took a deep, shaky breath. Then another. “I can’t lose her too. I should have been there…”

Merrill hesitated, then reached out and clasped the man’s armored hand with her much smaller, much more slender elven one. She squeezed gently.

“Marian would be grateful to see you here now,” she said, giving him her warmest, most encouraging smile. “And that’s all that matters.”

Carver’s expression didn’t change. She hadn’t expected it to.

The sudden din of raised voices drew their attention. Someone – actually, several someones – were shouting outside the clinic. Carver looked to the door with a darkening scowl. Varric sat up as well, hefting Bianca against his shoulder. He hopped off his cot with a grunt and headed for the door. His eyes were narrowed dangerously, his finger hovering over Bianca’s trigger. He glanced around the corner, then sighed and muttered, “Well, shit.”

Merrill also stood and followed close behind the dwarf. “What’s that noise?”

“Sounds like we’ve got quite the fan club gathering outside.”

“Fan club? What do you mean?” Merrill looked over his shoulder and saw that a crowd had gathered outside. There were at least thirteen people crammed into the alley outside the clinic, every one of them clamoring and shouting. The two Templar guards flanking the door had drawn their swords in preparation for an attack. Merrill saw with a sinking heart that there were several angry Templars in the crowd shouting with all the rest.

Cullen had also taken up position outside, though he hadn’t drawn his sword. His arms were folded defiantly across his chest as he spoke to the group.

“Everyone!” the Knight-Captain called. “Everyone, you need to return to your homes! This is an ongoing Templar operation and—”

A rotten tomato flew from the crowd and splattered against his chest plate. He recoiled with a disgusted grimace and the Templars on either side of him stepped forward and raised their swords. He signaled for them to stand down.

“My sister was a mage!” one of the crowd-goers shouted over the din. “And she got carted away to the Tower!”

“So was my brother! They made him Tranquil!”

“And my mother!”

“Every mage goes to the Tower.” One of the protesters, an angry-looking Templar with a disfiguring scar across his nose, forced his way to the front of the group. “It’s the law. What makes Marian Hawke so special?”

“If you have issues with this arrangement,” Cullen snapped, wiping rotten tomato paste from his armor, “then you can take it up with Knight-Commander Meredith.”

“You can’t be serious! This is a travesty!”

“We won’t stand for this!”

“Hawke should go to the Tower like all the rest!”

Varric shook his head with a grimace. “An hour ago, everyone was celebrating Hawke as Champion of the city and all the people in it, mage or no. Never ceases to amaze me how quickly people return to the old ways of thinking.”

Merrill didn’t know what came over her, but hearing all those men and women clamoring for Hawke’s imprisonment ignited something in her. Her blood boiled until she was sure she’d turned beet-red from head to toe. Her hands quivered, tightened into tiny, trembling fists at her sides. And before she could stop herself, she stepped around Varric and marched outside to face the crowd.

“Daisy!” Varric grabbed at her arm as she passed. He missed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She didn’t answer him, her thin face pulled down in a furious scowl.

 _I’m tired of hiding behind Hawke_ , she thought. _Tired of hiding from Templars, from bandits, from_ everything _in this awful city. I’m not hiding any more._

A ball of lightning crackled into life between her palms. She threw it up into the air, high above her head where it exploded into a shower of sparks with a loud _snap_! Instantly the clamor died down and every gaze fixed on her. The alley was suddenly, frighteningly silent.

“Now you all listen to me,” she snapped. Her usual tiny, quivering voice rang over the crowd with more power and authority than she thought possible. “Marian Hawke is a _hero_. She saved your lives from the Qunari! She’s lying in there, wounded and dying, because of you! And this is how you repay her?”

She felt Cullen’s wide palm fall on her shoulder, obviously trying to pull her back. She shoved him away and took a step closer to the crowd. Those nearest to her took a fearful step back.

“That woman,” she continued, “the woman I love, has done nothing but sacrifice for you people. She has fought and bled for you ungrateful _shems_ for _years_! And when she fought the Arishok, she wasn’t fighting for herself. She wasn’t fighting for _me_. She was fighting for all of you!”

She raked her gaze over the crowd, a dark sneer pulling at her features. “How _dare_ you turn against her after everything she’s given! She is the only reason we all haven’t been conscripted into the Qun!”

The angry-looking Templar with the nose scar stepped forward again. “You want to stand with her, knife-ear? You can get the brand, the same as her.”

“You aren’t going to make her Tranquil,” Merrill snarled. She clenched her fists and twin balls of fire sprang to life around them, consuming her hands up to the wrists. The crowd flinched away from her at the sight, whispering and hissing among themselves. “If you try, you’ll have to go through me.”

“And me.” Carver suddenly appeared at her shoulder. He had his broadsword in hand, and he planted the sharpened tip into the dirt and gravel beneath his boots. “My sister saved your lives. If you try to harm her, I swear to Andraste I will kill you all.”

The scarred Templar sneered. “You’d truly turn your back on your own order? To defend a _mage_?”

“That’s right.” Carver nodded, a dangerous set to his jaw. “I may be a Templar, but I’m also a Hawke. You’re welcome to discover which I value more.”

“Traitor!” someone suddenly shouted.

“Traitor!”

“Mage-lover!”

Another object sailed from the crowd; a rock, this time. It struck Merrill in the jaw and sent her reeling back a few steps. The fire crackling around her hands sputtered out, her mana flow interrupted by surprise and pain. She rubbed at the quickly-forming bruise along her jaw and watched through watering eyes as Carver moved to step toward the crowd, broadsword raised.

He didn’t get far. Cullen interjected again, grabbing them both by the arms and pulling them away from the crowd, which was quickly growing more and more agitated. There were at least twenty people now, clamoring and shouting at the men and women taking shelter in the clinic.

“You two aren’t helping,” Cullen said, escorting them back to the door to Anders’ sanctuary. “Get inside and care for the Champion. I’ll handle things out here.”

“Can you?” Carver demanded, eying the crowd. They were still throwing things, but the Templar guards were blocking most of the projectiles with their shining, emblazoned shields. “If this comes to a fight, you’re going to need us.”

“A contingent of city guards is on its way to reinforce us as we speak,” Cullen said. “Your friend Aveline is among them. Once they arrive, the crowd will disperse.”

“And if they don’t?”

Cullen’s expression darkened. “Then may the Maker have mercy upon us all.”

He gestured for them to return to the clinic, where Varric waited with Bianca still tucked tight against his shoulder. Then the Knight-Captain turned back to the crowd and held out both hands.

“Please,” he called, “disperse and return to your homes. Your animosity accomplishes nothing!”

“Rebel mages get the brand!”

“If Hawke doesn’t have to go to the tower, my sister shouldn’t either!”

“Traitors!”

“ _Traitors!”_

The last thing Merrill saw was Cullen wearily rubbing his forehead. Then Varric shut and locked the clinic door and the sight was lost. The shouting of the crowd died back to a dull, muffled rumble.

Varric sighed and put a hand on Merrill’s shoulder as he led her back to Hawke’s cot. Anders had set to work again, doing his best to work on the bloody puncture wound in Hawke’s torso. If he heard the commotion outside, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“That was very brave, Daisy.”

Merrill huffed. “Those people don’t deserve Hawke.”

“No. No they don’t.”

Her shoulders slumped. After facing down the angry crowd, she suddenly felt very tired. Her hands trembled as if she had plunged them into a bucket of icy water. Her heart was thumping too fast in her chest and the bruise along her jaw throbbed uncomfortably.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said, her voice now very small. “Now they know _I’m_ a mage too!”

“I said it was brave, Daisy,” Varric said with a sad smile. “Not smart.”

“I was just so _angry_ ,” she sighed. “Hearing all those people clamoring for her blood… I just wanted to defend her. To show them how wrong they were about her.”

“That might have worked,” Varric said. “If you were speaking to something less than a mob. People can be reasoned with and turned away, not mobs. They’ve got the taste of blood in their mouths now, and nothing will change their minds. I’ve seen it before.”

“So what do we do?”

He patted her shoulder and eased her down into her old seat at Hawke’s side. She quickly reached out and clasped the unconscious woman’s hand again, squeezing it tightly in her cold, quivering fingers.

“Stay here, Daisy,” the stocky dwarf said. “Get some rest if you can. I’ll keep an eye on the fan club outside and tell you if anything develops.”

“You shouldn’t go out there,” Carver said. “They’re already riled up enough. And it won’t take much for them to jump from _kill all mages_ to _kill all nonhumans_.”

“Hey,” Varric shot him a charming, crooked grin, “it’s me we’re talking about! Worst case, I’ll give them a sneak peek of my next book and they’ll calm right down. Your old pal Varric knows how to work a crowd.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

He cranked back the loading rod of his crossbow, feeding an arrow into the firing mechanism. “Then I’ll let Bianca do the talking.”

~~~~~~

The bandages stayed on for weeks. They itched and itched, but Papa scolded her every time he caught Marian scratching at them. They had to be changed twice a day, and they stuck and pulled painfully at her skin when they were removed. She caught a slight glimpse of the world every time they were changed, but her right eye remained as dark as if the bandages were still in place.

She had been blinded. Papa explained that he could rebuild her eye, make it look like nothing was wrong. It would even move with her other one and no one would be the wiser. But magic couldn’t repair damaged optical nerves, nor could it rebuild the delicate internal structures that granted sight. Her vision would remain forever dark on that side and there was nothing she could do about it.

She spent over a week in bed, prohibited from strenuous movement. At first – after the endless throbbing pain of her wound had finally, finally faded – she thought it was great. She didn’t have to do her chores or her studies, she got to play with her carved toys as long as she wanted, and Mother brought her soup whenever she asked. Papa even told her stories before bedtime, spinning tales of his exploits and adventures throughout Thedas. He hadn’t done _that_ in quite some time.

But after a few days, the leisurely periods of recovery became more of a prison. She longed to get out of bed and return to the world. She wanted to walk in the forests again and kick at her pinecones. She even longed for the distraction of her household chores and studies.

But more than anything else, she wanted to look in the mirror. Mother had strictly forbidden it when the bandages had gone on, of course. She claimed there’d be plenty of time to preen and fix her hair once she was better. It was a poor attempt at humor, and one that didn’t fool Marian.

She saw the way Mother avoided her gaze every time the subject was broached. She heard her parents arguing at night, yelling at each other that this area was no longer safe. She had tried to spy her reflection in the tray Mother used to bring her meals, but it was blurry and unfocused – not to mention blocked by the heavy bandages.

When her impatience got the better of her and she demanded to know why she couldn’t look, Papa had sighed and set the record straight. He had set his chair near her bed, then reached out and cupped her tiny hand in his two large ones. His calloused palm felt rough and hard under her delicate child’s fingers.

“Magic is an incredible gift,” he’d said. “And it is capable of doing incredible things. But it can’t do everything, Marian. It enhances our physical traits, but doesn’t replace them.”

She hadn’t understood. Magic _could_ do everything. She’d seen it with her own eyes: it had built their home, shielded their family from harm, and killed that Templar in the woods. Magic could break all boundaries, change all the rules.

But Papa had shaken his head with a weary sigh. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was pale and clammy. The last few days had been difficult for him, she knew. The combination of magical healing and arguing with Mother was obviously taking it out of him.

“I’m not a healer by trade, Sparrowhawk,” he said. “I was able to fix the worst of the damage, but… but I couldn’t erase it completely.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“When the bandages come off,” he said slowly, avoiding her heavily-bandaged gaze, “you’ll have a scar. A long one. It will cover almost half your face, over your right eye. And it won’t go away. Not with magic, and not with time.”

He squeezed her hand again and his voice shook. “Forgive me, Sparrowhawk. I never wanted this for you. Never wanted any of this for you.”

She wanted to shout at him. She wanted to stamp her feet and rail at the injustice of it all. She wanted to blame him, to put all responsibility on his head. She wanted to cry and send him away, leaving her to her dull, throbbing aches and her itchy bandages. But she didn’t do any of that. She couldn’t. For some reason, she couldn’t form the words.

Instead, what fell from her lips was, “I forgive you, Papa.”

Tears had welled in Malcolm’s slate-gray eyes, and he gathered her up in his arms to hold her tight against him. She hugged him back, weeping silently into his shoulder with her one remaining eye.

That had been over a week ago. The itchy bandages had continued, as had Mother and Papa’s arguments. The pain slowly – ever-so-slowly – began to fade away. She woke one morning, almost two weeks after her accident, and realized that it had finally vanished completely.

That was the day. The day the bandages came off. The day she caught her first glimpse at her face since the attack. She was standing in front of a large shard of broken glass hung on the wall, which they used as a mirror. Her reflection was warped and a little blurry, but she could see it clearly enough.

Papa unwound the bandages slowly, his fingers gentle as they peeled the bindings away from her skin. They no longer tugged at her, soaked with blood. They slid away smoothly and rasped against her skin with a perpetually itchy scrape.

Marian’s heart was racing in her chest. Adrenaline coursed through her system in an icy flood, and she felt dizzy with equal parts fear and anticipation. Mother was standing a little off to the side, her hands folded elegantly in front of her. She looked just as anxious as Marian felt.

“Now Sparrowhawk,” her father was patiently explaining, “you must remember that just because the bandages are off doesn’t mean you’re completely healed. You must give your body time to recover after what you’ve been through, or you’ll open your wounds and the bandages will have to go back on.”

“Yes Papa,” she dutifully replied.

“And…” he hesitated. “Please don’t be alarmed. I tried to control the damage as best I could, but…”

“I know, Papa,” she interrupted. “I won’t be afraid.”

She knew he blamed himself for her injury. She knew Mother blamed him too; she had heard as much during their many arguments. But she didn’t blame him. She knew that it was her fault. She shouldn’t have wandered so far into the forest, directly against her father’s wishes. A smarter girl would have stayed home or, failing that, stopped the Templar herself before he’d managed to hurt her.

None of it mattered now, of course. Nothing could be done to change it. She simply had to live with the consequences.

The last bandage finally fell away, and she was granted an unimpeded view of her face. She stifled a gasp, remembering her promise to her father. It didn’t stop her eyes – both of them, though only one now worked properly – from stretching wide in shock.

An ugly, twisting gash of a scar stretched down her right temple, over her eye, and down her cheekbone. It twisted next to her nose and slashed diagonally across her jaw, over her lips, before curling to a stop at the dip in her chin. It was a livid white depression against her skin, a hideous deformation that divided her face almost in half, and she reached up with trembling fingers to trace along the groove. It didn’t hurt anymore, but the winding furrow dug across her cheek felt strange and foreign under her curious fingers.

She slowly pulled a face in the mirror, sticking out her tongue and watching the scar pucker and shift as her skin moved. Then her face fell still, eyes silently raking over the mark and memorizing every facet of her new, alien appearance. Papa squeezed her shoulder, no doubt waiting with bated breath for her reaction.

Once again, she wanted to shout. She wanted to stamp and scream and wail that it wasn’t fair, that she would never be beautiful now, that she didn’t deserve the bandages or the pain or any of this.

But again, she didn’t. She just stared at the scar, realizing with a sick sense of certainty that her life had changed irrevocably. She would never again be able to blend into a crowd, would never be able to walk down the street without people staring. She’d be teased and taunted by other children, and she’d likely never marry – after all, who would want such a hideously marred wife? People would spit on her as she passed, would call her a freak and a monster and a –

She knew that scar was the end of her life as she had imagined it. Things would be different now, so different from the childish fantasies she had dreamed up in the blissfully ignorant days before the attack. Before the Templar.

She suddenly thought back to her earlier mantra, the fantasy that had brought her strength even when the Templar had chased her through the dark and foreboding forest: _I’m a dragon._

In a single moment, that fantasy had been shattered. She didn’t want to be a dragon anymore. She didn’t long for great scaly wings and the ability to summon fiery breath. She didn’t want to fly away from the forest to far-off lands of adventure and excitement. Now her wish was far simpler, and far more unlikely.

She wanted it gone. She wanted the scar to vanish, to heal over completely until nothing remained but a distant, fading memory. She wanted to wake one morning and find it had vanished, no matter what it took. She would give up her carved toys, her favorite jerkin, even her precious magic. She just wanted, more than anything else in the entire world, to be _normal._

Papa squeezed her shoulder again and murmured in her ear. “Marian? Are you all right? Say something.”

“I’m all right, Papa,” she finally said. She reached up, patted the hand on her shoulder, and felt him relax. She was glad; this wasn’t his fault, no matter who said otherwise or what he told himself.

“It doesn’t look _that_ bad,” she lied.

~~~~~~~~

Years passed. The twins were born, and the cabin grew verycrowded. Mother and Papa began talking about moving again, maybe back to a village. It was easy to see that Mother was tired of the wilderness, no matter how comfortable Papa tried to make it. She was of noble birth, after all. The life of a drifter may have suited him, but it didn’t suit her.

They spent months planning before the decision was finally made: the time had come to leave the forest and return to Ferelden proper. They spent days packing all their things, and Papa saddled up their tired old mare with all their most prized possessions. Mother brought along her jewelry, her sewing supplies, and a tiny locket inscribed with some kind of bird-like insignia. Papa brought his staff, his favorite pair of boots, and a leather-bound journal he refused to let Marian read.

Marian herself spent most of the time making sure the two-year-old twins weren’t lost in all the bustle. The children liked to stick to Marian like glue, and it was often difficult to get time alone to herself.

But during her rare private moments, when Mother or Papa were playing with the twins or telling them tales of the villages, she managed to steal away a small pouch from the kitchen. Inside it she hid her small collection of carved wooden toys and her handkerchief, which was now faded from age.

She also dropped inside a tiny, polished stone that she had found in the forest during her first trip exploring with Papa after her accident. When she held it up to the light, the stone caught the sun’s rays and sparkled radiantly. Even in the dark, she could see the little stone twinkling like an earthbound star.

Papa said it was called an amethyst and that it was very valuable. But Marian knew she loved it not for its fancy name, but the way it always sparkled with a deep purple hue. Her favorite color.

After they had left their cozy cabin far behind, the trip back to the villages seemed to take forever. By Marian’s count, it had been four years since she had seen a living person other than her family – and the Templar. The prospect of returning to civilization after so long a time living out in the woods sent butterflies fluttering through her stomach.

Her mind, as always, returned to the matter of her facial scarring. The wound had healed completely over the years, and was now a dark furrow that stretched across her face. Her right eye was now slightly crooked, and her eyebrow on that side was jagged and lopsided where the scar bisected it.

How would people react when they saw it? Would they cringe? Would they stare? She didn’t like being the center of attention, preferring always to stick to the rear of groups and be left to her own devices. She doubted her scar would allow her such anonymity any more.

The twins, by comparison, were stoic and silent: the two-year-olds sat swaddled in blankets in the back of the cart and stared out with wary eyes. They had never known a world outside the forest, and couldn’t begin to imagine both the wonders and the dangers of civilization.

Marian envied them that sense of innocence and wonder. They didn’t know about Templars or witch-burners or any of the other treats of the world. Lucky for them.

She was walking behind the bouncing cart, keeping her spirits up by telling Bethany about the various foods she remembered sampling in the cities.

“Do you know what a _noodle_ is, Bethany?”

The toddler shook her head.

“It’s _marvelous_ ,” she said, thinking back to the taverns and inns Papa had taken her to when they had last been on the run. “Imagine a soft little rope that you wind around on your fork. You put it in soup or serve it with bread and sauce. You can even have it with butter and cheese! Does that sound good?”

The toddler shook her head.

“Hmm…” Marian tapped her chin, her finger rubbing over the indentation left there by her scar. “What about a donut? Do you know what a donut is?”

The toddler shook her head.

“It’s something called a pastry. They make them in Orlais, I think. It’s a little circle of… well, I guess it’s like cake. And you put creams and chocolates and all manner of sweets on the top and eat them for breakfast! Does _that_ sound good?”

Wide-eyed, the toddler nodded.

Up ahead, Papa reined in the horse and called over his shoulder, “Slow down, Marian. Someone’s here.”

Her heart instantly dropped into her stomach, her next words dying on her lips. Who was it? Another Templar? Something worse? She quickly tucked her hands away into her pockets, lest they betray her with an unwarranted shower of sparks or frost.

But the figure that melted out of the shadows of the trees was no Templar. It was an elf.

He moved gracefully, more like a dancer than anything else. His bare feet made no noise as he glided over the forest floor, which was carpeted by crunchy dead leaves and branches. He seemed to appear out of nowhere, like Papa’s tales of specters and wraiths than inhabited ancient ruins.

Marian’s eyes stretched wide. She’d never seen an elf before, though she’d heard of them from Papa’s tales. As the man came into the light, she saw that he was accompanied by another. Both carried bows and sported the facial tattoos of the Dalish Clans.

 _Two_ elves! A man and a woman.

The man was short, only a little taller in stature than Marian herself. His blonde hair was pulled back from his face by a strip of dark leather, while his armor – made from the same material – was adorned with drapes of vines and flowers. His feet were bare and muddy, and his face had been smeared with mud as well. He was carrying a bow, which was currently drawn with an arrow ready to fire.

The woman trailed behind him, and at the sight of her Marian’s eyes stretched – if possible – even wider. She wore leather armor like her compatriot, also adorned with leaves and vines as a manner of camouflage. Her jerkin, however, was cut at the shoulders and belly, showing off her flawless alabaster skin. Her hair fell in a luxurious midnight-black curtain that framed her elegant face, which was adorned with the swooping marks of her tattoos. Her eyes shone a brilliant sparkling green.

She was the most beautiful person Marian had ever seen.

The male elf swiftly strode toward them, his bow still drawn and aimed at Papa. As he drew close enough to speak, his lips peeled back from his teeth and he barked something out in a strange, lyrical language Marian didn’t understand.

He was obviously not a friend. Marian was about to grow fearful when her father suddenly responded in that same lyrical tongue. He gestured to his own chest and said something Marian could not decipher, though she distinctly heard the word, “Malcolm,” in the mix.

The elf narrowed his eyes suspiciously and did not lower his bow. But when he spoke next, it was in the Ferelden common tongue _._

“You are refugees?” the elf man said, his voice laden with a heavy accent.

Malcolm nodded. “These forests aren’t safe for my family any longer. I’m taking them back to the cities.”

The bow didn’t move. “You travel through our territory, _shem_. I should kill you where you stand.”

“And you would be well within your rights to do so,” Malcolm replied. He held up his hands placatingly. “I was well aware that I traveled through Dalish lands. But I had no other choice. I have to get my family to the cities. It’s not safe here anymore.”

The elf’s aim faltered the slightest bit; even half-blinded, Marian’s gaze was still sharp enough to pick out the way his aim quivered. His beautiful companion remained stoic and unreadable behind him.

Eventually, the man sneered again and said, “What were you doing living in the forests in the first place? The Brecilian Forest is no place for _shemlen_ to raise families.”

“It was the only option, I’m afraid.” Papa cocked his head. “Your tattoos. They are familiar to me. You are of Clan Elgara?”

The elf’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. But he slowly nodded, to which Malcolm smiled his warmest, most charismatic smile. But Marian saw the way his hands were raised, fingers splayed wide. Within the blink of an eye, he could loose a bolt of lightning or a wash of fire to take the elf by surprise.

“I’ve done some trading with your clan,” Papa continued. “I’m a friend of Keeper Ehrendue. I promise you that I am no enemy, _falon._ ”

The man turned and muttered something to his beautiful companion. He looked angry, as if he did not want to let them go.

Then, something remarkable happened. The woman stepped forward and put a delicate-looking hand on her companion’s shoulder. She nodded to the assembled Hawkes and said something quiet that Marian could not hear. She couldn’t help but notice how the woman kept glancing directly at her.

The elf man’s gaze softened. The bow slowly descended. He still looked suspicious, but he no longer held the commanding presence he had displayed before. The black haired woman, by comparison, seemed to grow even more radiant.

She stepped forward now, her arms folded in front of her. She nodded to the cart and when she spoke, her voice carried a soft and lyrical accent that sent butterflies fluttering through Marian’s stomach.

“Your goods,” she said. Like her friend, her voice carried a heavy accent. “What do you carry?”

“If you’re looking for something of value, I’m afraid you won’t find it,” Malcolm replied, sounding relieved. His hands slowly lowered to his lap. “But if you’re willing to trade, I’d be happy to talk. I’m sure we could all use a rest.”

A few more words were exchanged between the two elves. Then the man finally returned his nocked arrow to its quiver and slung the bow over his shoulder. “If you are truly _vhenallin_ , a friend of the clan,” he said, sounding a little reluctant, “then we will not harm you. We will trade, but then you will be on your way and you will not return.”

Malcolm nodded and dismounted from the mare, leaving Mother to take the reins. “You are wise and kind, my friend. _Ma serannas_.”

The elf man approached the cart, his sharp eyes darting quickly over their sparse collection of supplies. They didn’t have much; a few articles of clothing, an old cooking pot, and some game Papa had caught for the road before departing.

The woman, however, did not seem interested in their possessions. Instead, she walked straight for the children waiting at the rear of the cart. Mother looked apprehensive and moved to dismount from the horse and join them, but Papa put a hand on her arm and held her back. There was something in his gaze that Marian could not place. He knew something the rest of them did not.

Marian quickly hopped away as the beautiful elf woman approached. She blushed and stared at her muddy boots, avoiding looking at the raven-haired woman. When the woman’s deep green eyes fell on her and the twins, they flashed with warm kindness. She bowed her head and placed a hand against her chest in greeting.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , _da’len,”_ she said. She smiled at Marian, which made her heart flutter uncomfortably in her chest. “I am called Saidavel. What is your name, little one?”

“M-my name is Marian.” Her voice sounded very small and frightened. “Marian Hawke.”

The elf woman knelt in front of her and cocked her head. Over her shoulder, Bethany stared at her with wide eyes, while Carver tried to inch away and began whimpering in fear. Marian could smell the scent of pine needles and fresh rain as the elven woman drew close. She blushed and refused to look up from ragged boots, too afraid to meet that captivating green gaze.

“And what brings you to our part of the forest, hmm? Does your father speak true?”

Marian nodded quickly. “We can’t stay here. Too many bad men are coming into the woods now.”

“He is a wise man, then,” Saidavel said with a smile. “Tell me, _da’len_ , did one of these _bad men_ hurt you? Is that why a child bears a warrior’s mark upon her face?”

 _Warrior’s mark_? Marian had never heard it referred to in that manner before. But, seeing the woman’s smile, she nodded again. “Y-yes. How did you know?”

Saidavel cooed and reached out, tracing Marian’s scarred forehead with incredibly soft fingers. Marian felt a shiver run down her spine at the woman’s touch. It was not an unpleasant shiver.

“You were clawed by the talons of _Fen’Harel_ himself, _da’len_. Yet you escaped? The Creators certainly watch over you.”

Marian heard Mother hissing at Papa, telling him not to let the elven woman touch their daughter. But Marian didn’t want Saidavel to go away. She sensed no malice from the beautiful woman with midnight-colored hair. In fact, she felt… _nice._ Her aura pulsed with soothing latent magic in a way Marian had never felt before.

“I don’t think I’m lucky,” she said, still staring at her boots. Saidavel’s touch faded as the elf drew back. “I don’t want this _warrior’s mark_. It makes me ugly.”

She didn’t know why she was talking. If it was anyone else, she would have remained stoic and silent, particularly about this. But something about Saidavel made her _want_ to talk. She could tell the elven woman was trustworthy. That she meant no harm to her or her family.

“Ugly?” Saidavel echoed with a concerned frown. “This is the furthest thing from the truth, _da’len_. Such a mark does not diminish you. It shows you are _strong_.”

Marian looked up at her. “Strong? How am I strong?”

“The greatest of heroes must endure the greatest of pains, _da’len_ ,” the woman said. “How else are they to embrace their destiny?”

Her gaze grew more somber. “I can sense you have already endured much pain, Marian Hawke. And you will endure much more before your tale is done.”

Marian’s heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. “W-what do you mean?”

But Saidavel didn’t say more. Instead, she reached into her pouch and produced a handful of berries and roots. She held them out to her and the twins with an encouraging smile.

“Eat, _da’assan_ ,” she said. “You look like naught but bones already.”

Marian was never one to turn down free food. She and the twins eagerly gobbled up the offered treats. The berries were tart and made her cheeks pucker, while the root was bitter and barely edible. But she and the twins still gulped them down like they were the finest sweetrolls. Saidavel was right; it had been a long time since they had eaten.

While the children were distracted with the berries, Saidavel put a warm hand on Marian’s shoulder and drew her away. When Marian looked at her, confused and jealous of the twins and their treats, the elven woman smiled encouragingly. She drew another small cluster of berries from her pouch, all colored a deep scarlet.

But she didn’t offer them to Marian. Instead, she crushed them all in one hand and mashed them into a dark red paste.

“A great destiny lies before you, _da’len_ ,” she murmured as she swirled two fingers in the mashed berry juice. “A great and terrible destiny. And so you cannot leave without the proper preparations.”

She reached out and traced her fingers, now dripping with scarlet, across Marian’s forehead. Marian flinched at the woman’s soft touch and the cold dampness against her skin.

Saidavel gently chided her for moving and continued her work. She drew a series of vertical lines over Marian’s forehead, then swooping figures under her eyes. These were followed by circles on both cheeks and then more vertical lines down her jaw and over her lips. Saidavel drew back with a thoughtful frown, then finished with a single horizontal swathe over the bridge of Marian’s nose.

As she worked, the woman began singing something. It was quiet, almost too quiet to hear, but Marian could pick out a few words of the lilting elven language:

“ _Ame amin,_ ” the woman sang _. “Halai_ _lothi amin. Noamin Heruamin.”_

“What is that?” Marian said before she could stop herself. “That song? What is it?”

Saidavel looked surprised for a half-moment. Then her eyes sparkled again and she smiled. “It is an old _elvhen_ song, little one. Written for a great hero after a great victory. I think there will be a few songs written about you as well when you grow older.”

“I don’t think so,” Marian said with a frown. “I’m nobody special. I’m just a little girl!”

“Ah, but is that all you are?” Saidavel said with a mischievous smirk. “And here I thought a dragon lurked behind those silver eyes.”

Marian’s blood ran cold in her veins. How did she know that? How _could_ she know that? Had this beautiful elf been spying on her and her family? What other deep secrets did she know?

“H-how do you know that?” she asked in a tiny, frightened voice. “I haven’t told anyone but my Papa about that.”

Saidavel’s wide, soothing smile seemed to chase away any lingering doubts. She meant no harm to the Hawkes. “I sensed it, little one.”

The pieces began to fall together. Marian licked her suddenly-dry lips and said, “Are… are you… like me?”

The elven woman gave her a single, graceful nod. “I am. That is how I can sense the power within you, and the destiny that lies before you. These words were only for you, and so I had to converse with you, in a manner where no one else would overhear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you not sense it, young one? We have been speaking telepathically since I first arrived.”

Marian’s eyes widened, as did Saidavel’s smile. The girl was about to say something, to demand answers to all the questions that had suddenly sprang to life. But then she felt Saidavel’s gentle hands cup her cheeks and draw her forward. A moment later, soft lips pressed against her forehead, and she shivered again.

“ _Dareth shiral_ , little dragon,” Saidavel said as she drew back. Her lips did not move when she spoke. “Your road will take you to strange and unfamiliar lands. May the Dread Wolf forever hunt in different forests.”

Then, with a soft breath and the wafting scent of fresh rain, Saidavel drew back and stood to her full height again. She took Marian’s tiny hand in her own and led her back to the cart. With a heave, she helped Marian up to sit next to her brother and sister. Then she took a step back, bowed her head, and spoke aloud.

“May the rest of your journey be safe and restful, little Hawkes. Dream happy dreams.”

She said no more. With that final blessing, she turned and walked away, returning to her male companion. Marian wanted to watch her go, to stare after the woman until the final moment when she vanished from sight. But her eyelids felt suddenly heavy, and within moments she had passed into a deep and peaceful sleep.

~~~~~~~~

At the front of the small caravan, Malcolm watched Saidavel reunite with her companion. The male elf had provided them with much-needed food and medicinal supplies in return for some cooking pots and a string of decorative beads that were originally of elven make. Their business concluded, he had agreed to let the cart go.

But he wasn’t about to let the elves wander off without some answers. So he stepped after Saidavel before the woman could get too far away.

“Why did you stop us?” he demanded. “I saw you and your friend spying long before you stepped out onto the road. Why reveal yourselves now?”

He took another step forward, his face darkening into a scowl. “More importantly, what does an elven mage want with my daughter?”

Saidavel stopped in her tracks, but didn’t turn around. When she spoke, her voice did not carry over the air. Rather, it echoed within his mind on a warm wave of telepathic energy.

“Great things lie in store for your daughter, Malcolm Hawke,” Saidavel said. “Her destiny will take her to strange and foreign lands, where her choices will influence the fate of thousands.”

She now turned to face him, hands linked in front of her once more. “Many of those thousands will be _elvhen_. Many more will be mages. And one – a very special one – will be both. I have foreseen this.”

“How?” Malcolm pressed. “Mages can’t see the future. No one can.”

Saidavel smiled – a sad, knowing smile – and simply said, “ _Ar lasa ghilan, lethallin. Banal ir.”_

Malcolm was about to say more, to demand to know what she meant by that. He wanted to make her reveal all she knew about Marian and his family. What destiny was she talking about? Who was this elven mage who would be so important?

But Saidavel wasn’t finished. Her eyes suddenly flashed again, but this time they lacked all the warmth and humor they had shown before. Now they were cold and commanding, the same as her voice.

“Protect her, Malcolm Hawke,” she said. “Protect her even at the cost of her own life. There will be many who seek to cut her down. You must prevent that, for as long as you draw breath.”

“She’s my daughter,” Malcolm said. “Of course I’ll protect her.”

“Swear it. Swear that a Templar will never lay another finger on her so long as you live. Swear that the scar upon her face is the last one she will ever bear.”

Despite himself, Malcolm winced at her words. “I… I swear.”

Saidavel nodded, and her commanding presence vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Good. Great things lie before her. Things that will change the fate of Thedas itself. History will remember the Hawke name, _lethallin_. This I promise you.”

She turned to leave again, but again Malcolm called her back.

“You tell me to protect her,” he said, “for as long as I live. But will I be able to protect her? Will I live to see this destiny she’s to fulfill?”

Saidavel didn’t turn to face him again. And when she spoke, her voice was soft and sad.

“No. You will not.”

All the air seemed to have been sucked from Malcolm’s lungs. His shoulders slumped and his fingers fell slack. Before he could say more, Saidavel and her companion briskly strode away and melted into the trees, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I like to think that Saidavel is secretly Merrill’s mother. Canon be damned. :D
> 
> Also, I have no godly idea how long this story will continue. Every time I try to follow my set plan, more new ideas (like this scene) pop into my head and demand to be written. So for now, let’s just see where this journey takes us.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ar lasa ghilan, lethallin. Banal ir: I provide guidance. No more.
> 
> Ame amin. Halai lothi amin. Noamin Heruamin.: The last lines of “I Am the One.” Roughly translated, it says, “I am the one who can recount what we’ve lost. I am the one who will live on.”


	5. Out of Exile

Even years later, Marian would remember the elves in the forest and Saidavel’s cryptic words. She would remember those flashing green eyes and the exotic designs the elf’s dexterous fingers had painted across her scarred and ravaged face. Mother scrubbed the berry paste from her cheeks as soon as the elves had vanished of course, hissing that they were lucky the Dalish hadn’t stuck them full of arrows before they could blink. She told Marian not to listen to the elf woman and forget this had ever happened.

But Marian never forgot.

When they finally emerged from the forests and reached the towns, it was both better and worse than Marian had imagined. Everything was _bigger_ than she remembered from her early days before they had fled to the forest; towers stretched high into the air, occasionally blocking the rays of the sun above while great carts laden with fruits and vegetables trundled down the road in huge caravans of men and horses. Soldiers patrolled the highways in neatly-organized columns, their tall spears stretching up into the air like the quills of the forest hedgehogs Marian used to chase as a girl. And no matter where they went, there always seemed to be Templars glaring at her.

She told herself it was just her imagination. That the Templars had no reason to suspect her of anything, even with the scar that ravaged her face. She and her family were just another batch of refugees, fleeing some conflict or another. Contention between the arls was common in Ferelden, and there had to be some kind of border war they could capitalize on.

Her heart was racing when they reached their first town. It was a sprawling, dusty-looking collection of wood and thatch buildings that stretched right up to the edge of the Brecilian Forest. Marian was riding on the horse when they arrived, safely tucked into her father’s lap as they approached the first checkpoint leading into the village. Mother was sleeping in the wagon behind them, the twins snuggled close under each arm.

“This is South Reach, Sparrowhawk,” Papa murmured as they fell into the line of people entering the city. “It’s a logging town that thrives off of lumber mills and the Drakon River. Do you remember who rules here?”

Marian scrunched her face up, thinking back to her many lessons on politics and geography. “Um… it’s, uh… Arl Bryland!”

Her father chuckled and ruffled her hair. “Good job.”

She stared at the many plumes of smoke rising into the air all around the village and listened to the distant shouts of soldiers and the cry of crows somewhere above them. Then she glanced over her shoulder at her father with a concerned frown.

“Is this going to be our new home?”

His chuckle slowly faded. “I don’t know, Sparrowhawk. It could be. Do you want it to be?”

She shrugged, reaching forward and patting their horse’s stringy mane. “I don’t know. Will there be other children?”

“I would assume so.”

“Like me?”

Malcolm Hawke’s frown deepened. “Probably not, Marian.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “All right.”

“If we do settle here,” her father continued, keeping his tone as light and cheerful as possible, “you’ll be able to return to a proper school. You’ll have friends again.”

Marian sniffed a little and said nothing, thinking back to her friends from previous villages. There weren’t many, as the Hawkes had moved many times before finally settling into the forest. Even before going into exile, they had rarely remained in one place for long. Marian did remember one, however: a young boy named Yarpen, who had been about her age. He’d lived in the last village the Hawkes had visited before the forest, and Marian remembered liking him well enough. He’d been the son of the local lord’s favorite hunter and had regaled Marian with tales of his father’s many adventures in the lord’s service.

Marian’s own father had much better adventures, of course, but she was forbidden to share them. So she’d sat and silently listened to Yarpen’s tales of bloodthirsty bears and great salivating boars with feigned admiration. She’d considered asking Yarpen over for supper one evening, but they had moved on before she could get the chance. She hadn’t seen the young boy since, and doubted she ever would again.

For the longest time, Marian had longed for companionship. She dreamed of the days she would return to the cities and build up a veritable army of friends who would accompany her wherever she went. They would do everything together: swimming in the river, swordfighting with wooden sticks in the back alleys where the lord’s knights occasionally wandered, and playing tag through the alienage. Maybe she would even make friends with a Qunari! The idea had fascinated her.

But as she grew older and they spent more and more time isolated in the forest, her desire for companionship began to dwindle. She still wished to return to civilization rather than hide away in the wilds like a common bandit or a member of the Chasind, but some part of her — some deep part, bitter at their continued exile in the woods — realized that she would always be shunned from “normal” life for some reason or another.

The scar on her face only made that all the more certain. When they had happened upon their first settlement after leaving the Brecilian forest, Marian had begged her father to give her a hat or a cowl to cover her scarred face. People were _staring_. They looked at her normally at first, but when the ravaged side of her face was thrown into the light, they recoiled with wide eyes and curling lips. Some were better at hiding their revulsion. Most were not.

When they’d stopped at an inn for the night, tired and sore from too much time on the road, the innkeep had asked what had happened. He’d narrowed his eyes and growled, “Your lass steal somefin?”

“Beg pardon?” Papa had replied with a wary frown.

The innkeep had nodded at Marian, who was bashfully trying to hide behind her mother’s dress. “The little one. She steal somefin? ‘Cause I heard that if a young’un steals somefin in Rivain, they mark ‘em up like that. So they don’t never forget they’s a thief.”

Malcolm had scowled at the innkeep and coldly snatched their food from the bar. “My daughter is no thief. She was attacked… by a wolf.”

“Really?” The inkeep’s bloodshot eyes widened. “Well, beg pardon master. I ‘eard them wolves is bad inside the trees. Somefin about the knife-ears stirrin’ ‘em up to attack us normal folk. If’n you don’t mind me askin’ master, but is she a werewolf? ‘Cause I heard that them Dalish cavort with werewolves upon the solstice. No shortage of wickedness and unnatural happenin’s in that forest.”

Malcolm had glared at him and turned away without another word. Marian had followed, but not before sticking her tongue out at the red-eyed innkeep.

She sighed as they rode along in the column heading for the city, absently playing with a strand of hair from the horse’s mane. If she returned to school now, things would be no different. People would point and laugh or recoil in disgust. She would be plied with endless questions about how she got her scar. Did it hurt? What had happened? Did she scream every time she looked in the mirror? Did her family scream when she woke up in the morning, hair and face an equal mess?

If Papa sensed her melancholy, he didn’t bring it up. He just patted her shoulder and continued to feign confidence. “If we do settle here, we could make a real living. Settle down, start a farm. Maybe we could even get you a dog. How would you like that?”

“I guess that’ll be nice.”

Papa ruffled her hair again, his voice softening. “It’ll be okay, Marian. We’ll be safe here.”

Marian tried to believe him. She tried to believe that this time everything would be all right. That she didn’t have to worry about Templars or witch hunters or the Rite of Tranquility any more. She tried to believe that, even with her scar, she could live a normal life here, in this bustling village by the forest.

She tried. She failed.

~~~~~~~~

They spent the next five years in South Reach. Papa began work at the local lumber mill, sawing down trees and loading transports headed for other parts of Ferelden and the Free Marches. Mother took up work as a seamstress, mending ripped trousers or patching jerkins with rough scraps of leather. Marian returned to schooling at the local Chantry, learning about the history and geography of Thedas, as well as the more intricate nature of Andrastianism: how the Prophetess had been taken as the Bride of the Maker, and how she had been betrayed by her treacherous mortal husband Maferath. Marian thought it was a very exciting story.

The dreaded questions about her scar came and went, and as the years passed she grew used to avoiding those who called too much attention to it. The names upset her of course: other children called her _Darkspawn_ and _Wolfmeat,_ but she did her best to ignore them. The knowledge that she could — in theory — light them all on fire with a flick of her fingers was more of a comfort than she liked to admit.

What wasn’t comforting was the fact that the only institution that offered educational opportunities was the Chantry. She had nothing against the church — she was a semi-devout Andrastian herself, after all — but where there were Chanters, Templars were never far behind.

She burst into tears on her first day, when she saw the silent knights standing guard on either side of the entrance to the Chantry. She had turned and buried her face in Papa’s shoulder, begging him to let her return home and help Mother with her sewing. She didn’t want to return, didn’t want to go anywhere near those magnificent soldiers with their shimmering armor and their razor-edged swords. She had tasted the bite of those blades once and had no desire to feel it again.

Papa had stroked her hair and gently but firmly told her that she had nothing to fear. As her sobs grew louder and others nearby turned to watch, he told them she was simply nervous for her first day of school.

He’d taken her aside, out of earshot of the others, and cupped her face in his warm, rough hands.

“Marian, look at me.”

She had done as requested, sniffing and blinking away the heavy tears that tugged at her left eyelid — her right eye, damaged as it was, could not cry. Papa brushed a tear from her cheek and offered her his warmest, most encouraging smile.

“You have nothing to fear from these people, Marian,” he said. “I promise you.”

“B-but they’re Templars!” Marian said, her voice falling to a frightened squeak. “L-like the one who hurt me!”

“No. Not like him. That was a single man.”

“B-but—”

“Not all Templars are evil, Marian. Some of them are good people. Better even than you or me.”

“But w-what if these ones aren’t? What if they… what if they can sense what I am?”

Malcolm’s grey eyes had softened, his lips turning up in a smile. “My darling girl. That’s not going to happen.”

“But—”

“Remember what happened the day you were hurt? Who came to save you?”

“Y-you did.”

“That’s right. And you want to know how I knew you were in danger?”

Marian’s eyes felt as wide as dinner plates. “H-how?”

“I felt it,” Papa said. He reached out and took her hand, placing it against the rough material of his shirt, over his heart. “In here.”

“How is that possible?”

“Magic, Marian.” He grinned at her. “It can do wonderful things and bind people together in incredible ways. You’re my daughter and I share a connection with you, just as I share one with your Mother and with the twins. And if you’re ever in trouble, if you’re ever in danger, I’ll feel it. I’ll be there to protect you, just as I was before.”

He placed his hand over hers, pressing it against his heart. “I promise you, Marian. I will never let anyone hurt you again. I’ll die myself before I let that happen. Do you believe me?”

“I… I do, Papa.” Marian nodded.

“Good. Now come. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

He took her hand and led her, still sniffling, back to the front doors. Her heart plummeted into her chest as her father led her right up to one of the Templar guards, who was standing with his arms folded and his shield slung over his back.

“Knight-Captain Trevor,” Papa said, greeting the man with a friendly nod. “My daughter here is a little nervous, what with all the soldiers loitering about. She’s gotten it in her head that you’re all some manner of revenants, come to snatch her away from the land of the living. Would you please prove her wrong?”

With the clank and rattle of armor plates, the Templar reached up and removed his angular helmet, revealing a wide, kind face with skin as dark as night. He looked down at Marian, causing her to squeak and hop behind Papa for protection. But then, the unthinkable happened.

The Templar smiled at her.

“Well hello there, Marian,” the man said. His voice was deep, gentle, and seemed to rumble like distant thunder. “Your father has told me much about you.”

He held his fist to his chest and bowed his head in salute. “It’s an honor to finally meet you in person.”

“It…” Marian peeked out from behind her father’s leg. “It is?”

“Oh yes. Your Papa and I are good friends. He delivers shipments of lumber for the fires at the local Templar garrison. He’s a good man. A little foolhardy and more than a little irritating. But a good man nonetheless.”

He leaned down, causing Marian to squeak in fear again. But she didn’t hide this time, instead gazing into Knight-Captain Trevor’s dark brown eyes with her wide grey ones.

“You don’t have anything to fear from me, Marian,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I’ll keep you safe so long as you remain under the Chantry’s roof. After all, does the Chant not say, _all men are the Work of our Maker’s Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings?”_

He cocked his head and smiled wider. “It is my sworn duty as a knight of the Templar Order to defend all those who walk in the Maker’s light.”

He glanced at Papa. “Even if the walkers happen to be smarmy daredevils who have more guts than brains.”

Marian’s eyes stretched, if possible, even wider. “You… you know what I am?”

Knight-Captain Trevor smiled at her again, then straightened to his full height once more. “What you are, Marian Hawke, is a young girl about to be late for her first day of classes. You should go, before Sister Nenneke grows cross.”

She felt Papa’s hand fall on her shoulder, and she turned to face him with a shocked expression. “You… you made friends with a _Templar_?”

“As I said,” Malcolm murmured, falling to one knee before her, “there are good men among them. Knight-Captain Trevor will ensure you are protected. But no playing with fire, all right? Even his protection can only go so far.”

“Y-yes, Papa.”

“Good.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Then go, darling. And have a wonderful day. I will be here once your classes are finished.”

Marian nodded numbly and turned to enter the Chantry, her entire conception of the world shaken to its very core. Knight-Captain Trevor smiled warmly at her as she passed through the great double doors and into the cathedral.

She, hesitantly and shyly, smiled back.

Thus her academic schooling began, in a far different fashion than any she’d imagined before. Her magic schooling also continued, under the cautious and watchful supervision of her father. After their third year in the village, Bethany joined her in her lessons; she had thrown a tantrum at dinner one night and frozen the soup she refused to eat into a solid block of ice. More fights between Mother and Papa ensued soon after.

Carver, surprisingly, showed no signs of magical abilities as the years wore on. He remained nothing more than a normal young boy as the years passed, though he seemed to grow more sullen at the attention Papa paid to his magically-inclined daughters.

Contrary to Papa’s claims, Marian made no friends at her school. Some claimed it was due to a lack of effort on her part, but she knew that wasn’t the whole story.

The truth was that she had long ago learned to judge people based on their reactions to her scar; if they wrinkled their noses or squinted in surprise upon first seeing it, they would inevitably turn to calling her names and refusing to sit with her at mealtimes. If they didn’t, she knew she could trust them.

She had yet to meet someone of the latter kind.

The years wore on and she grew less and less interested in her academic studies. She once again began to look to the horizon, eager to explore the world for the first time since she’d been attacked. Reality, however, kept her securely grounded in South Reach.

As soon as she was old enough she took a job with the local stableman, shoveling out stables and brushing down the horses after her studies were over. It wasn’t glamorous work, but the stables were warm in the winter and it allowed her to be alone with her thoughts of far-off kingdoms and exciting adventures. It suited her well.

That was, however, until a visitor came to the stables one autumn day, five long years since the day they had moved to South Reach. Marian, who had celebrated her sixteenth birthday only a few weeks previous, was shoveling muck from the stables and doing her best not to gag at the smell.

She wasn’t alone in the stables. The twins had just arrived from their classes at the Chantry, deciding to keep their sister company until it was time to return to the cabin for supper. Carver was sulking in the corner, scuffing morosely at the dirt with one rough leather sandal. Bethany was reclining on a bale of hay nearby, kicking her feet absently and giggling whenever the horses tossed their manes and whinnied at her.

“Marian,” Bethany said, cocking her head at her older sister. “Do you think Papa will make us dumplings for supper?”

Marian shrugged and tossed a forkful of foul-smelling goop into its appropriate waste bucket. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Carver pulled a face and sniffed. “I don’t like dumplings.”

“Why not?” Bethany said, sounding as if the statement was a personal affront to her honor. “Papa makes such good dumplings. Ooh, and rabbit stew!”

“I don’t like rabbit.”

The young girl stuck her tongue out at her twin brother. “You don’t like anything!”

Marian left the twins to their bickering and focused on the task at hand. The smell was only going to get worse the longer the stables remained filthy, and Horsemaster Lewis would tar her hide if he thought she was slacking on the job.

But she did hesitate when she heard footsteps. The twins continued their speculations about dinner in the stall behind her, but someone else was approaching. She paused her work and looked up, tossing a lock of raven-black hair from her eyes.

She had visitors. Two of them; a boy and a girl, both around her age. The young man was tall and well-built, with long black hair pulled into a tight ponytail and a dark look on his face. The girl — his sister, no doubt — had her hair shorn close to her head, leaving little more than stubble across her scalp. She’d obviously fallen afoul of lice in the past month or so and had cut her hair short as a result. The two were leading a dark brown draft horse behind them.

Marian huffed and turned back to her duties. They were travelers. Newcomers to the village, far from her concern. They were probably just wandering the city, trying to find their way to the markets. She didn’t have time to socialize, and if these stables weren’t mucked out by the time Horsemaster Lewis returned from the markets…

“Excuse me? Excuse me, miss?”

No such luck, it seemed. Marian sighed and straightened, plastering a friendly smile on her face like she’d been forced to practice so many times before. She turned to the two and planted her pitchfork into the straw at her feet.

“Welcome to Horsemaster Lewis’ stables,” she said, reciting the customary greeting Lewis demanded from his workers. “If you have mounts to check in—”

The girl shook her head. “No, nothing like that. We’re looking to get our horse shoed. We’re new to town, and our parents want to make sure Pegasus is ready to work the fields tomorrow morning.”

She patted the horse’s mane and smiled. Marian didn’t smile back, taken aback by the friendly greeting.

She hadn’t flinched. The girl _hadn’t flinched when she’d seen the scar_.

It was hardly like someone could miss it, especially when she tied her hair back like she had it now. She’d tried letting her hair down in the past, to cover up the unsightly old wound. But she found that it was always getting in her eyes and sticking out at odd angles. She had no choice but to bare the mark for all to see.

 _And she saw it_ , she thought. _She saw it and didn’t so much as blink._

Marian shook her head, as if she were chasing away an irritating insect. That wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. She must have missed it, must have been distracted by—

“Is that all right?” the girl pressed. “We can pay. Gold sovereigns, straight from Denerim.”

She pulled a coin pouch from her belt and shook it, letting Marian hear the clink of coins inside.

“O-of course.” Marian chided herself for being so easily distracted, then gestured for the two to follow her deeper into the stables.The girl instantly fell into step behind her, bringing the draft horse with her. Her brother hovered at the threshold with a distasteful look on his face.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “I don’t want to soil my new boots.”

The girl waved him off. “Fine, fine. Go snoop around the markets or something. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

The boy grunted and stalked off, out of sight. The girl shot Marian an apologetic look. “Sorry for my brother, Bolton. He’s a little squeamish when it comes to farm living. We used to be cityfolk, but we’re looking to settle down here for the time being.”

Marian grunted and took the horse’s reins from the girl. “We’ve seen a lot of refugees in South Reach lately. Something about fighting in the Free Marches, I think.”

The girl rolled her eyes and sat down on a nearby bale of hay. “Everyone in the Free Marches winds up fighting at some point or another. This time it’s some kind of coup attempt in Starkhaven. Whatever happened, my parents decided it was time to head further south.”

“You’re not from Ferelden, are you?”

The girl cocked her head. “How can you tell?”

“You’re not splattered with mud and dog hair, for one. And your accent’s wrong. Not strong enough for Ferelden. You’re a Free Marcher?”

The girl smiled, and Marian quickly turned her back. “Starkhaven, actually. Your accent isn’t Ferelden either. It’s got a bit of a Kirkwall drawl to it.”

“My parents,” Marian said, “came from Kirkwall.”

“Right shithole of a city, if you ask me. No offense.”

Hawke led the horse over to a nearby workbench, where the necessary tools were resting. She hitched the obedient animal to a post and scooped up a hammer. “I’ve never been there. Don’t plan to go, either.”

“Oh. So you’re Ferelden through and through?”

“All my life,” Marian grunted, using the hammer to pry the old horseshoe nails free of the horse’s hoof. The animal snorted and tossed its head, at which Marian quickly reached up and patted its flank, speaking in calming, soothing tones. The horse glared at her with one eye, then snorted again and slowly calmed down. Marian made a mental note to be gentler in her ministrations.

The girl raised an eyebrow. “You’re good with animals.”

Marian smiled a little despite herself. “You should see me with my dog.”

“Ugh. You Fereldens and your _dogs_.” The girl rolled her eyes, but a small smirk suggested the dig wasn’t entirely serious.

“If I were actually a loyal Ferelden citizen, you’d probably have earned yourself a knock upside the head with that comment.”

The girl shot her a grin. “Then I’m very glad you’re not one of those soggy, wet-dog-smelling Ferelden mongrels. Much better to be a warrioress with Free Marcher blood in her veins.”

Marian glanced at her. “Warrioress? What makes you say that?”

The girl gestured to her own face. “Your scar. I can only assume you got it in battle. Defending your family from bandits or darkspawn no doubt. Ooh, or was it a dragon? It was a dragon, wasn’t it?”

The girl’s words called something up in Marian, an old memory of a beautiful elf with raven-black hair and green eyes. Green eyes and the words _battle scars…_

But she quickly shook her head and recited the old excuse. “No, nothing like that. I was attacked by a wolf when I was a child. My family used to live in the Brecilian Forest.”

“The forest?” The girl’s eyes lit up with wonder and delight. “Oh, you must tell me all about it! Did you see any old ruins? Or elves, what about elves? I heard there are trees in the forest that are so old, they can _talk_! They spend all day coming up with rhymes and worrying about their stolen nuts. Or was it acorns?”

Marian frowned at the girl, happily smiling on her hay bale. Then she shook her head and returned her focus to the task at hand. “You’re a strange person.”

“Ah, but that’s the best kind of person to be.”

Marian reached for a fresh horseshoe from the workbench, just out of reach. The girl hopped off her hay bale and handed it to her, offering an open hand along with it.

“My name is Brooke,” she said. “Brooke Moorlay.”

Marian bit her lip, then held out her hand. “Marian Hawke.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Marian.”

The two girls shook hands, then spent the next few minutes chatting back and forth while Marian finished reshoeing the horse. They talked about South Reach and its relation to the rest of Ferelden, how the king wanted to go to war with the Orlesians again.

Brooke spoke of Starkhaven, its great ivory towers, and its royal guards in sparkling silver armor. She also spoke of her few trips to Kirkwall and how different the city was compared to spotless, sparkling Starkhaven. Kirkwall, according to the Free Marcher girl, was dirty and smoggy, a haven for criminal gangs and smugglers hiding in twisted streets under smoke-filled skies. Strangely, Kirkwall was also home to a great many mages — some had claimed the city’s water supply was laced with powdered lyrium, which led to a greater number of babies born with magical powers.

Marian listened raptly as she reshoed the gelding. These tales of far-off cities and adventure were a metaphorical breath of fresh air amid the stale boredom of South Reach. She plied her new friend with all manner of questions over the next hour. Were there elves in Kirkwall? What about dragons, had they ever been spotted above Starkhaven’s ivory towers? What were the markets like on a warm summer afternoon?

Brooke answered as many questions as she could manage with a ready smile and a happy bounce from her seat on the hay bale. Eventually, however, as the sun began to set over the thatched wood rooftops and Marian’s work drew to a close, Brooke hopped down from her seat and brushed off her hands.

“Well this has been a lovely conversation, Marian. But I should probably be getting home. And… I think I’ll need your help to do it.”

Marian raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“My brother, Bolton, stalked off somewhere on his own, remember? He’s probably off playing dice with the other boys by now. But I’m still new here, and I don’t know the way home.”

Marian turned away. “Ask one of the Templars. I’m sure Knight-Captain Trevor will be happy to help.”

“That’s the problem. I’m not a big fan of Templars.”

 _That_ pricked up Marian’s attention within the blink of an eye. She masked her surprise as an irritated flick of her head, as if shaking a strand of straw from her eyes, and slowly turned to scrutinize her companion once more.

“What, are you some sort of apostate?”

Brooke snorted. “Me? Bollocks, I hope not. But my family… let’s just say we’ve been on the wrong side of the law one too many times. Angry Templars were a regular fixture at our old farm in Starkhaven. And I’d rather that trend not continue here.

“Besides,” she continued, cocking her head and shooting Hawke a roguish grin, “a Templar won’t be willing show me where to find a decent meal in this cesspit. Are you any different?”

“Apparently not,” Marian said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to where the twins were still talking in hushed tones. “Didn’t you hear? I’m in for dumplings tonight. Wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Brooke narrowed her eyes playfully. “ _Touche, madame._ I guess Templars it is, then. If you don’t see me again, it’s probably because I said the wrong thing and wound up in the city jails. Farewell, Free Marcher girl.”

She threw Marian a jaunty salute, then took the reins of her horse and headed back out onto the street. Marian watched her go for a half-second too long.

Then she sighed, her shoulders slumped, and she called, “Wait! Hold on.”

Brooke half-turned back to her. Marian scowled at the girl, but gestured for her to come back into the stables.

“I’ll help you get home,” she reluctantly said. “But let it never be said that I refused help to a stranger in need.”

Brooke smiled and came bounding back into the steps with a happy clap of her hands. “Wonderful. Now I won’t have to worry about getting mugged on the way back. With a fearsome warrioress like yourself to guide me, we can take on any foe!”

“I think you’re overestimating the danger lurking in South Reach’s back alleys. This isn’t big, fancy Starkhaven.”

“Andraste’s tits, I hope so. I’ve had enough run-ins with bad characters to last a lifetime.”

The twins had finally begun listening in to the conversation. Bethany gasped, hiding her open mouth behind her palm. “You said the T-word! You’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap!”

Brooke smiled sweetly at the girl. “Of course, honey. I’ll get right on that, as soon as I’m finished talking to your sister.”

“I don’t like soap.”

“Carver, shut up.”

Marian gestured to her siblings, pointing them toward the door. “You two go on and head home. I’ll catch up shortly.”

Bethany nodded and dutifully clasped her brother’s hand as they headed for the door. “We’ll tell Mother you’ll be late. Be back in time for supper! You don’t want to be late for Papa’s dumplings!”

Marian waved and watched the twins leave. Bethany was skipping — at least as well as she could while Carver sullenly dragged his feet. After a few moments, they passed down a side alley and out of sight.

Brooke watched the two go, hands on her hips and a smile on her face. “They seem nice. Are they your siblings?”

“Yes. Twins,” Marian replied. “The best things that ever happened to me.”

“I know what you mean. Bolton may be a wanker from time to time, but I’d do anything for him.”

Brooke looked out of the stables, at the sun sinking behind the horizon. “Well, Marian, we’d better get on the move. I don’t know what prowls the back streets of South Reach after dark, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out.”

“Rats, mostly.”

Brooke scowled and mimicked Carver’s surly drawl. “I don’t like rats.”

Against her better judgment, Marian found herself laughing.

~~~~~~~~

**Present Day**

The shouting outside had only grown louder as the hours passed. The ranks of protesters had swelled with more angry Templars and Kirkwall natives who screamed, chanted, and threw rocks at the clinic door. Cullen was still trying wrangle them to the best of his ability, now supported by four more loyal Templars sent from the Chantry. Aveline and her guards had yet to arrive.

Varric was currently dozing next to the door, Bianca cradled under his chin like a child with his treasured teddy bear. Anders was also sleeping, worn out from the exertion of healing magic and surgery. Hawke had yet to reawaken.

But Merrill could not bring herself to sleep. She had tried a half dozen times, but could never do more than fall into a fitful, nightmarish doze. Images of blood, fire, and horned warriors raced through her mind every time she closed her eyes.

Now, she was pacing back and forth, rubbing her arms and listening to the clamor just outside. The most recent rallying chant was, “ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

Merrill sighed and ran her hands through her hair, doing her best to filter out the noise. She focused on the steady rise and fall of Hawke’s chest and the way the woman’s breath rasped up from her lungs. She was breathing better than before, and it looked like none of her wounds had become infected. That, at the very least, was a small mercy.

“ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

She sniffed and sat next to her Champion, tracing the soft pad of her thumb over the back of the woman’s hand. She couldn’t be sure, but it almost felt like the human squeezed her hand back in response.

“Marian,” she sniffed, “I know I’m asking a lot, but I need you to wake up. Right now.”

She glanced over her shoulder as a heavy rock thumped against the door again. She squeezed Hawke’s hand tighter. “You beat the Arishok, but the fight isn’t over yet. There are poeple here who want to hurt us. And… and I don’t know if I can stop them.”

She shook her head. “I’m no warrior. I’m not brave or dangerous. I like books, not blades. That was always your specialty.”

Something else thumped against the door, even bigger and louder than before. Merrill winced, while Varric snorted and started from his sleep. He looked around, then scowled and relaxed against the wall again.

“Bloody protesters,” the dwarf muttered, settling back into a comfortable position with his crossbow tucked close to his chest. “Blondie should have put up some kind of force field around the clinic. Something nice and thick, preferably with an electric charge.”

He grumbled a bit longer, but quickly fell into slumber once more. Merrill wasn’t surprised; dark circles had formed under his eyes and it was clear he was exhausted. They all were.

“He’s not wrong.”

Anders had been woken by the noise as well. He rubbed his eyes and sat back on his stool. A sigh fell from his lips.

“I should have put up a force field,” he said, glancing to the door. “But I couldn’t. Not without weakening my healing magic and potentially losing Hawke. Now I’m too weak to…”

“You’re doing your best,” Merrill reassured him. “Hawke is still alive because of you.”

“For the moment.”

The little elf shuddered. “Don’t say that. She’s going to wake up. She has to.”

Anders continued to stare at the door. There was a dark, hard look in his eyes Merrill didn’t like.

“Cullen’s a dedicated soldier,” the mage said. “He’s a good Templar, and I don’t mean that as a compliment. But even he and his lackeys won’t keep that crowd out.”

Another heavy thud from the door, and more shouts of, “ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

Anders shook his head and settled back into his seat. After a few moments, he sighed again and closed his eyes.

“That door will come down before long,” he murmured as he too drifted back into slumber. “And the horde will be right behind it. You’d best be prepared for when that happens.”

 


	6. Damaged Goods

In any “civilized” society, rumor is always the first enemy and greatest weapon of the apostate mage. Rumor infests every facet of life, from the markets to the work fields, from the hearths of local inns to the sparking campfires of forest hunters. It swarms and invades daily living, flowing in and out of every road, side alley, and secretive passage. It is persistent — as persistent as the most devoted mage hunter.

After years of living in South Reach, Marian Hawke had learned to pick up rumors as effortlessly as she listened in on her parents’ ever more frequent arguments, muffled behind the thin walls of their village home. She was easily one of the most in-the-know people in the village; something that came in very handy for herself and her family. One time, Bethany came down with a cold and wound up sneezing icicles that embedded themselves two inches deep in the walls. Mother worried they would be in for a visit from the Templars — at least until Marian planted rumors there were werewolves prowling through the woods nearby. The rumor caught on and the entire Templar force was sent hunting nonexistent monsters deep in the woods, leaving Bethany with plenty of scrutiny-free time to recover. By the time the shining knights returned from the forests dirty, sore, and angry, the littlest Hawke was as healthy and cheerful as ever.

Marian prided herself on keeping up with local gossip, even devoting some of her free time to loitering at the local tavern and picking up the juiciest new stories. She didn’t drink there, of course — she wouldn’t waste her coin on that swill even if her parents did allow her to drink — but it never hurt to linger on the outskirts of the crowd and soak up useful information. The scruffy local bartender had given up trying to chase her away and now rather reserved her a seat near the door.

Her new friend Brooke Moorlay was also an invaluable help when it came to keeping in touch with local scuttlebutt. She was no greater fan of Templars than Marian — for very different reasons — and had taken to keeping tabs on local Chantry-related news on her own. Marian played off her interest as a feigned dislike for law enforcement, which was easy to believe given her rebellious nature.

As the days became weeks and weeks grew toward a year, the Ferelden and the Free Marcher became nigh inseparable. Almost every day, Brooke would stop by the stables to help Marian with her chores, groom the horses, and trade local rumors back and forth. Besides comparing local lumber prices and debating whether Ferelden would restart their seemingly endless war with Orlais, there wasn’t much else to hold a growing girl’s attention.

Local rumor was usually boring and repetitive: the miller was sleeping with the alderman’s wife, the Dalish were lurking around in the forest on the other side of the river, and Knight-Captain Trevor was always suspiciously nicer than a Templar had any right to be. Marian filtered through most of this with disinterest. But she quickly pricked up her ears when the gossip grew far more personal.

Brooke Moorlay and Marian Hawke, the rumors suddenly claimed, were bedding each other.

She heard it first at the Chantry, when picking up the twins from their classes for the day. A few of the more unfriendly sisters were muttering about it, and Hawke, with her ever-sharp hearing, picked up on the conversation when she heard her name being passed between them. As she and the twins marched by, the sisters shot Marian a volley of unfriendly glares.

The second time she heard the rumor was while working at the stables. It was more an insinuation than an out-and-out accusation, this time from Horsemaster Lewis. The portly balding man waddled into the stables, glared around at his surroundings, and spat, “What, that Moorlay wench hangin’ about today?”

Marian, brushing down the manes of one of their more adventurous horses, shook her head. “No, Master Lewis.”

“Good,” the man snorted, then hocked into a nearby haystack. “Lass like her ought not be invadin’ the workspace, distractin’ the workers. Maker only knows how little you manage to get done when yer makin’ googley-eyes at her ‘stead of doin’ your job.”

Marian bristled as the Horsemaster stalked off once more, no doubt heading back to the tavern to drink and boast about how his well-groomed horses were the pride of South Reach.

Normally rumors such as this wouldn’t be cause for concern; sapphic relationships were far from uncommon in Ferelden, often seen as a quirky cause for gossip but little else. The Tevinter Imperium might have eschewed same-sex relationships, but most Fereldens couldn’t care less so long as it didn’t interfere with the harvest, war, or playtime with the dogs.

Marian, however, had problems with the claims. Two problems, to be precise:

Firstly, her family couldn’t afford any excess scrutiny. They already had enough Templar attention as it was, what with Carver misbehaving during class at the Chantry and Bethany still learning to control her powers. And Brooke didn’t exactly get along with the knights herself, often reprimanded for swiping food at the markets, poaching in the arl’s hunting grounds, or generally making a nuisance of herself. Marian found the girl’s Free Marcher hotheadedness endearing. Most others weren’t so charmed.

Secondly, she didn’t have any kind of romantic feelings for her friend. At least none she was aware of. It couldn’t be denied that Brooke was beautiful, of course. Her short hair had grown as the months passed, lengthening into a luxurious auburn curtain that fell past her shoulders. She often kept it long and loose, and had recently taken to accentuating her eyes with dark strokes of ash. Marian often found herself impressed by Brooke’s almost effortless beauty, but she just wasn’t interested in her _that_ way…

The third instance of the rumor came to her, unsurprisingly, from a glum and morose Carver Hawke. Over breakfast one morning, her younger brother glowered up across the table and muttered, “So Marian… people at school say you like other girls.”

Marian sucked down her porridge in a single, shocked gulp and almost dropped her spoon into her bowl. When she managed to stop choking on her breakfast, she sputtered, “W-what?! Who says that?”

Carver shrugged, smiling smugly at his ability to so easily upset his older sister. “People. Drakken and Bol, mostly. They say you and that Moorlay girl snog in the stables when you’re supposed to be working.”

Bethany scoffed and scraped at her bowl with the side of her wooden spoon. “Don’t they have anything better to do than make up outlandish rumors about other people? Besides, I can’t see _them_ wooing any women. I think they only have three teeth between the two of them!”

“They’re not so bad,” Carver said, hunching his shoulders and glowering at his twin. “Better than _your_ friends.”

Bethany pointed her spoon at her brother and narrowed her eyes. “You take that back!”

Carver stuck out his tongue. “Make me.”

The raven-haired Bethany stuck her own tongue out, then looked to her older sister with a sweet smile. “Don’t listen to Carver. He’s in one of his moods again. Besides, it’s not even true, right?”

“Of course it’s not true!”

“Shame.” Bethany shrugged. “Brooke is nice. I like her.”

Marian leveled her own spoon at Carver. “Next time you see Drakken or Bol, you tell them to keep their long, crooked noses in their own bloody business.”

“Watch your language.” As usual, Mother seemed to appear from thin air, melting from a point somewhere behind her with a cold, elegant grace. She was dressed in a simple gray gown today, her hair pulled back in a functional braid that allowed her to show off her high-regal cheekbones. “And stop arguing at the meal table.”

“Carver started it!” Bethany protested.

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

Mother seemed to effortlessly tune out the young twins' bickering. She put a gentle hand on Marian's shoulder with a smile and gave it a gentle squeeze as she passed. "Good morning dear. I wonder if you could pick up some things from the market on your way back from your work today?”

“Such as?” Marian sneered at Carver one last time, then turned back to her lukewarm porridge.

“Eggs and flour, mostly. I can give you a list.”

“Ooh, is this about her birthday?”

No sooner had the words fallen from Bethany’s lips than the little girl clapped her hands over her mouth with a squeak. Mother whirled on her and hissed, “Bethany! It was supposed to be a surprise!”

“IknowI’msorry!” Bethany’s muffled voice was a messy spillage of words behind her hands.

Marian frowned. “Birthday?”

“Well I suppose the secret is out now,” Mother said, turning her back while Carver swatted his overly chatty sister upside the head. Bethany smacked him back, then the two returned to their breakfast without further confrontation.

“Did you forget, dear?” Mother continued, taking a seat next to Marian at the table. “Today is your birthday! Your seventeenth if memory serves.”

“I… I guess I forgot,” Marian said. She blushed and turned back to her breakfast. “I’ve… had a lot on my mind recently.”

“Well try to act surprised later. Your father and the young Moorlay girl have put a lot of work into your party.”

“Brooke helped?”

“Well of course, dear. Why wouldn’t she?”

Marian pondered over this for some time, a dark frown crossing her features and pulling at the twisted scar on her face. She poked at her bowl for a few moments, then awkwardly cleared her throat. “You know… if there’s going to be a party, I think I just want it to be a family affair. No outside people.”

“Are you sure, dear? Brooke worked so very hard to—”

“I’m sure,” Marian interrupted. “With me working at the stables, the twins in classes at the Chantry, and Papa away at the lumber mill, it’s been too long since we’ve all just sat down as a family. If there’s going to be any kind of celebration, I would rather it was just between us Hawkes.”

Mother tilted her head with a concerned frown, obviously suspicious of her daughter’s halfhearted excise. But she backed down when Marian threw her a carefree smile.

“It’s your birthday, dear. That means it’s your decision.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Marian said. Her smile disappeared as soon as her mother looked away. “I’m glad you understand.”

To be honest, she was very glad her mother _didn’t_ understand. At least not completely. Marian didn’t want Brooke there for fear of causing an incident, not for any desire for closer family bonds. In recent weeks, Brooke had become… confusing. The last thing anyone needed was that confusion spilling over into Marian’s already-stressful family life. Maker knew, Mother and Papa were fighting enough as it was; Marian was just glad her mother hadn’t heard the rumors about her daughter currently infesting the streets.

Mother was of a traditional sort, having grown up among Kirkwall nobility. That meant all traditional sensibilities and little tolerance for new ways of thinking. She had already started pressuring Marian into entertaining some of the wealthier sons of South Reach. On those horrid nights, she would have to don her nicest evening gown — a black velvet Free Marches dress Mother had somehow procured from a passing trader — and pretend to get along with whatever swine-sniffing degenerate Mother had fixated on.

Marian usually paid little attention to her soon-to-be suitors and joked about it all with Brooke the next day. It was only when the young men grew cross with her disinterest that Marian took real notice. One boy, for example, quickly became fed up with her cold attitude one night and happened to remark on her facial scarring — carefully covered up with makeup applied by Leandra before the evening’s festivities began.

“You think you’re some lofty city wench who can turn her nose up at folk whenever she wants?” the young man snarled at her from across the table. “You can slather on all the cosmetics you want, bitch, but you can’t hide the fact you’re damaged goods.”

Unsurprisingly, Marian took the insult rather poorly. Under the table, her hands clenched into fists and twin balls of fire sprang to life between her fingers. She was about ready to fire both spells off, aiming straight between the young man’s legs under the table, when Papa heard the raised voices and came to intervene. Malcolm quickly sent the boy away with a few terse words, warning him not to come back if he wanted to keep his own face free of marks.

He turned back to find his daughter standing, shoulders hunched and panting, with fire consuming her arms up to the shoulder. Her eyes blazed with a very different kind of fire, making her silver gaze flash in the flickering candle light. Her face was pulled into a feral snarl, the puckered scar on her face twisting and warping her usually pretty features into a stony mask of hatred.

“Marian,” her father said, stepping around the table. “Marian, calm down. He’s gone.”

“He had _no right_ to talk to me like that. How _dare_ he talk to me like that!”

“I know,” Malcolm said. “I know…”

He knelt in front of his daughter and took her hands. More out of reflex than anything else, Marian let the Fireball spell dissipate so she wouldn’t burn him. Her breath still came in short pants and smoke wafted up from between her palms.

“I’ll have a chat with your mother,” Papa said, squeezing her fingers gently, “and see if she can stop judging these young men solely on the wealth of their fathers.”

“Can you stop her completely? I don’t want to see any of these prats!”

“Baby steps.” He shot her a wry smirk. “Baby steps, Sparrowhawk.”

He was about to turn and leave when he noticed the way his daughter was still trembling. The way her clenched fists shook and her lip quivered, her eyes as large as the laden dinner plates still set, nearly untouched, on the table. He was instantly back at her side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Marian,” he murmured, “what’s wrong?”

Marian struggled to find her voice. It got caught somewhere between her belly and her throat, tearing itself from her lips in a strangled whisper as she fought to hold back her tears. “H-he called me _damaged goods_. He…”

“Oh, my little Marian...” Malcolm’s face softened and he quickly pulled his eldest into a soft hug. She broke down then, burying her face in her father’s shoulder as he stroked her hair and whispered it would all be all right. She hadn’t cried like this in ages, but now that she was it was like a fountain of despair had opened up in her.

“I-is he right?” she whimpered. “Is it true?”

“Of course not,” he said. He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, bearing the scar on her face for all to see. “You’re more than your appearance, Marian. Your wounds don’t define you. And no matter how many people claim otherwise, it’ll never be true.”

She sniffed and blinked as tears continued to fall freely in a single twisting path down her unmarred cheek. The damaged eye on the other side of her face — though it looked normal to everyone around her — was not functional and could not shed tears.

“What matters isn’t what’s on your face,” her father continued. He took her hand and placed it against her chest, over her heart. “What matters is in here. And no one — not me, not your mother, and not this disgraceful excuse of a boy — will ever be able to take that away from you.”

He put a hand on her shoulder again, holding her steel-gray gaze with eyes of an identical hue. She met her father’s powerful stare and strangely found her tears fading in place of exhausted little sniffles. When Malcolm spoke again, his voice was stern and uncompromising.

“You are going to be a great woman, Marian,” he said. “A _powerful_ woman. One whose name will be spoken with reverence for many years. But it won’t be because of your scar or because of your magic. It will be because of what you do, not what has been done to you.”

For some reason, his words helped calm her tears. Her clenched fists fell limp at her sides, all thought of flame effectively quenched.

That night, Malcolm Hawke tucked his eldest daughter into bed — which hadn’t happened since Marian had grown old enough and moody enough to spurn such childish treatment. He patted her hand and pressed a kiss against her forehead, then murmured, “Are you all right, Marian?”

She rested her hands over her stomach, staring up at the dark ceiling. “I… don’t know.”

Her next words surprised the gray-haired apostate at her bedside. “Is it always like this? Being an apostate?”

“How do you mean?”

She raised a hand up and sent a pulse of mana down through her fingers, watching as the digits grew cold and were quickly consumed by a thick coat of ice. “This… fear. Hiding who you are all the time, holding back all this power, afraid of anyone finding out who you really are. _What_ you really are…”

She looked to her father again. “Is it always like this?”

Something very powerful and very sad entered her father’s gaze now. He seemed to age years between heartbeats, his face falling and a hollow, sunken look haunting his gaze. He stared down at his own hands, for the moment free of a magical coating of winter, and nodded.

“Yes, Marian. Yes it is.”

“And… how do you know when it’s the right time to… to be yourself? To show what you really are? Like you did with Mother?”

“It’s not something one can really explain. You just… know it.”

“And what if you’re not sure if the person is right?” She bit her lip. “What if you’re not sure they’ll like what you show them?”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is there someone who’s caught my little Sparrowhawk’s eye?”

The nighttime gloom shrouded the blush that was creeping up her face. She tugged her covers up to her chin and in a tiny voice said, “Maybe…”

Her father let out a short sigh and stroked at the thick beard that covered his chin. “I suppose… I suppose you just have to take a gamble now and again. You have to have faith that the Maker has led you to the right one. And if it turns out to not be the right one… then maybe next time it will be.”

She stuck out her tongue. “That sounds awful.”

A deep chuckle from Malcolm. “It is. Oh, it is. But that’s what makes it so great when you _do_ find the right one. So… do you think you’ve found the right one?”

Almost against her will, Marian found images of Brooke springing to mind. Her laugh, her smile, the way her auburn hair shimmered in the summer sun. The way her eyes had flashed when she heard the rumors that she and Marian were lovers. The way that flash hadn’t been one of anger or indignation, but…

Marian licked her lips. “I don’t know yet. But… I kind of hope so.”

Her father chuckled and stood from her bedside. “Well I’ll have to meet the lucky young man before long. Just do me a favor and don’t fry him to a crisp like you almost did the poor alderman’s son?”

Marian finally cracked the smallest of smiles. “I make no promises. You know me.”

“That’s my girl.” Malcolm Hawke’s eyes twinkled with humor even in the dim light of the room. “Sleep well, Marian.”

“You too, Papa.”

But sleep would not come easily to either of them. After her father left, Marian heard her parents arguing once again through the thin wall that separated their rooms. She heard muffled exclamations of, “We’re not in the Free Marches any longer,” and, “She’s your daughter, Leandra! Start treating her like it!” and distinctly heard her mother cry, “It’s not my fault she’ll never be beautiful again!”

Marian, tired and overstressed from the day already, had no more energy for tears. Instead, she put her head under her pillow and fell into a fitful sleep marred by dreams of flaming swords, wolves, and the young alderman’s son shouting at her again and again.

“ _Damaged goods! Damaged goods!”_

_~~~~~~~~_

The next day when she relayed the tale in its entirety to Brooke, the young woman fumed at the injustice of the situation. The two girls spent the next few hours trading insults about the young man — and they spared no quarter when dealing with Hawke’s mother, too. Marian’s mabari hound, not-so-cleverly christened _Dog_ by a young Carver, sniffed and nuzzled at her mistress’ palm with a whimper, clearly upset by the girl’s distress.

“You deserve better than that Blight-stricken puke,” Brooke finally said, settling down on the hay bale next to Marian and shaking her head. Her long, auburn locks waved as she did, catching the light and taking on the color of flame. “Someone who’ll treat you right. Treat you _well_.”

“So I’m destined to spend the rest of my days with only Dog for company?” Marian scratched at the mabari’s ears as she said it. The hound grumbled happily and let his fat tongue lol from his tooth-studded maw. “Sounds swell.”

Strong hands suddenly wrapped around her shoulders as Brooke pulled her into a tight hug from behind. She pressed a playful kiss against Marian’s cheek as a comforting gesture; Marian had long ago learned that Free Marchers were far more hands-on with their friends than their southern neighbors.

“I’m sure a Ferelden mongrel like yourself can think of worse fates,” Brooke said in her ear with a wicked grin. “You’re all destined to die covered in dog hair and drool anyway.”

“That’s a cheery image,” Marian said with a chuckle, covering up the shiver that ran down her spine at the hot breath in her ear. She pushed the other girl away, letting her flop back onto the hay bale next to her. “I thought I had Free Marcher blood in my veins? That I was some Kirkwall warrioress?”

“Oh you do,” Brooke said sitting up and picked straw from her hair. “And you are. But you’re still Ferelden through and through. And your dog only makes the problem worse.”

“ _Oi_ ,” Marian said, effortlessly adopting a heavy Ferelden accent. “Don’t be insultin’ me bloody dog awer you’ll regret it. ‘Nuff said, yeah?”

Brooke burst out laughing and held up her hands. “All right, all right.”

Her laughter slowly died, replaced by a far more serious look. “But… next time you have a problem with one of these fools… just remember I’m here too, all right? And I won’t let them run you ragged like this bloke last night. You deserve better than that.”

Marian shrugged. “Mother seemed to think otherwise. The boy was the alderman’s son; probably the richest kid in the village. Apparently that makes him pretty desirable to some eyes.”

“Oh please,” Brooke huffed. She settled back until she was stretched out on the hay bale like she was about to go to sleep. “I’ve seen the kid. You could silence a squeaky wagon wheel with all the grease in his hair. Where I come from, that’s not _desirable_ by any stretch of the imagination.”

“And what about… what about scars?” Marian asked. She glanced at Brooke, then quickly away again. “Do those make people desirable?”

“Absolutely,” Brooke said, not seeing the blush that crept up Marian’s cheeks at her words. It only grew deeper when the other girl reached out and clasped Marian’s calloused hand with her smaller, softer one.

“Scars means you’ve actually _done_ something in your life,” Brooke insisted. Her fingers were soft and cool in Hawke’s grip. “You faced down a wolf at the whopping age of five, Marian. That’s impressive, and it’s high time someone recognized it instead of criticizing you for it.”

The comforting words were not lost on Marian, nor was the fact that it was all based on a lie. She had never faced down a wolf in her life. She hadn’t even defeated the Templar who had carved her face apart. The best she had managed was a pathetic pulse of fire and a childish cry of pain before her father had come to the rescue.

 _Everyone keeps saying I’m defined by what I do,_ she thought. _But what have I really done besides get myself into trouble?_

The fingers of her other hand came up and — for what felt like the millionth time — traced over the twisting, alien groove that marred her face. “If you say so...”

“I’m serious,” Brooke said. Her tone left no room for argument. “You’re a good person, Marian. And you deserve an equally good person to spend your life with in return.”

“I’m flattered.” Marian sighed and let go of Brooke’s hand as she stood and returned to work feeding the horses. The animals snorted impatiently at her as she approached. “But _good people_ seem to be in short supply these days. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Are you talking about me?” the Free Marcher girl inquired with a raised eyebrow. “Or are you referring to your dog again?”

Marian shot her a wicked grin. “The dog, of course.”

Brooke stared at her with a strange look in her eyes. Then she settled back into her previous position and put her hands behind her head. “Of course.”

The rumors only got worse after that.

~~~~~~~~

**Present Day**

Things were not looking good for those trapped within Anders’ clinic. The crowd was growing larger and angrier by the minute and there was still no sign of Aveline and the city guard.

Cullen was still outside — he hadn’t returned to the shelter of the clinic for hours — and was allowing the crowd to ask questions about the Champion’s condition. It was keeping the crowd calm enough for the moment.

Many of the questions obviously had no answer: questions like, “Will Hawke go to the Tower?” and “Why would an apostate be made the Champion of Kirkwall?”

Merrill drifted between sitting with a still and pale Marian and sulking around the clinic’s door to eavesdrop on the conversation outside. Her sharp elven ears caught every sound outside. Every shout, grunt, and angry curse, every frustrated shuffle of boots and scrape of armor plating.

“She should be made Tranquil!” someone was shouting. “She’s an apostate, like all the others! Why should she be given special treatment?”

“I can’t answer that question at this time,” Cullen responded. “The decision over Hawke’s fate is ultimately for Knight-Commander Meredith and Grand Enchanter Orsino to decide. Given the weight of her accomplishments in recent days—”

“She’s a mage!”

“She saved the city! Does that warrant no reflection? No reward?”

“Your job, Knight-Captain,” another voice sneered over the chanting and roaring of the crowd, “is to keep mages in the Tower. So do your job and put her in chains.”

“The rumors are true! He’s a mage-lover! I heard he ploughs ‘em in the Tower library when the other freaks aren’t looking!”

Cullen’s voice was weary and exasperated. “There’s no need to resort to—”

“Mage lover! I bet that’s why they kicked ‘im out of the Ferelden Tower! Got some of the monsters preggers, did he?”

“My history in Ferelden is none of your—”

“Mage lover!”

“Mage lover!”

Merrill turned away from the door, hugging her arms tight around herself and staring worriedly at her bare and dusty feet. Varric was still sitting on the cot next to the door, his crossbow resting across his knees. He glanced up as Merrill passed, as if she was the first thing he’d seen after waking from an engrossing dream.

“It’s not true, you know.”

She started. “What?”

He jerked his head toward the door. “I doubt Curly ever bedded any mage in the tower. Have you seen him around beautiful women? He goes red as a beet and loses all talent for comprehensive speech. Not much of a ladies man, that one.”

Merrill found herself giggling despite her best efforts not to. “I don’t really care who the Knight-Captain has or hasn’t bedded, Varric.”

The dwarf shrugged. “Always good to know which rumors are hogwash all the same. Proves the crowd outside don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re grasping at straws now, losing their righteous fever.”

She could still hear them chanting just outside. Again and again they cried, “ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

She shivered. “I don’t think they’ve lost any of their fever, Varric. They’re just as angry as before.”

“Ah, it’s just bluster. I’ve seen it before. They’ll give up and be back home in time for dinner. You’ll see.”

The tight set of his jaw suggested he thought otherwise. Merrill pointed this out, to which he simply said, “It never hurts to be prepared for the worst regardless, Daisy.”

“ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

Anders glared up from his position at Hawke’s side, his eyes dreary and bloodshot. The blue-white light flowing from his palms flickered out with a pop of sparks.

“Keep it down out there!” he suddenly shouted. “Some of us are trying to concentrate!”

“Easy, Blondie,” Varric said. “We’re trying to lay low in here, remember?”

With a disgruntled muttering the mage turned back to his patient and the healing light returned. Hawke shifted a little, craning her neck in unconscious discomfort. Her brows knitted in a pained frown and she let out a weak little groan; little more than a gentle hiss of breath.

Merrill was instantly back at her side, hoping she would see those silver eyes blink open once more. But Hawke was still unconscious and she quickly fell back into her earlier position, still and cold as a corpse.

“What happened?” Merrill demanded. “She moved!”

“She did,” Anders sighed. “That’s a good sign; she’s reacting to outside stimuli. Her coma’s growing weaker.”

“So will she be okay? Will she wake up?”

“I said it was a good sign,” Anders muttered, “not a great one.”

“What does that mean?”

The blond-haired mage huffed and let the healing magic die again, his hands clapping against his thighs. His face was drawn and haggard and his skin held an unnatural pallor. It was obviously difficult to maintain the magical flow keeping Marian alive.

“I’ve done just about all I can do,” he said. “The wound in her stomach has been stitched and sealed and her other wounds are gone now thanks to potions and magic. I managed to mend most of the internal organs that were damaged by the Arishok’s blade, but I still can’t help the damage to her brain.”

He shrugged. “I’m doing what I can to ensure her vitals stay strong and her wounds heal without infection, but I can’t tell when she’ll wake up. Or _if_ she’ll wake up.”

“She’ll wake,” Merrill said, taking Marian’s hand and squeezing it. Again Marian shifted, her large human fingers instinctively closing around the elf’s thinner, more dexterous ones. Merrill’s heart leaped into her throat at the motion.

“She’ll wake up,” she repeated. “She has to.”

“Merrill…” Anders sighed and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. His robes and hands were still caked with dried blood. Hawke’s blood. “Merrill, you need to entertain the possibility that she isn’t going to wake up. Or if she does, that she’ll have some serious brain damage. She could—”

“I know what _could_ happen,” Merrill said with a curt tone and an equally cold glare. “But I’d prefer to look at what _is_ happening. She’s healing nicely. She’s moving and making noise. She’s getting _better_.”

She looked down at Marian’s still face, at the frown still gently pulling at her features, at the way the scar on her cheek twitched slightly along with her chapped, downturned lips.

“She’ll wake up,” Merrill said, stubbornly refusing to meet Anders’ gaze. “She will. You’ll see.”

Anders opened his mouth, obviously wanting to press the matter further. He never got the chance. Before he spoke, his voice was drowned out by a thunderous explosion from outside.

_BOOM!_

Merrill squeaked and her eyes snapped up to the door. Anders quickly followed suit, while Varric hopped from his cot near the door and shouldered Bianca with a scowl.

Muffled screams and angry shouts could be heard beyond the clinic door. Stamping feet and ringing metal and Cullen’s distinctive smooth voice shouting, “Stay back! I implore you, keep the peace for all our sakes!”

The scrape of metal grating free from a scabbard. Then another.

“No! Templars, stand down! Stand—”

More screams. The sickly ripping sound of swords biting into flesh. Thick wet _thuds_ as bodies hit the dirt.

“Templars!” Cullen roared. “Stand down, I command you!”

The screams didn’t stop. There was another explosion, so loud and close this time it shook dust from the ceiling and rattled the clinic’s doors on its hinges. Merrill shrank back against Hawke’s cot, as if her fear alone would wake the mage from slumber to protect her.

_BOOM!_

A second later Cullen raced through the door, sword in hand, then whirled and slammed it shut behind him. Something heavy hit the other side of the door, driving him back half a step.

“Help me with this!” he barked.

Varric was instantly at his side, throwing his heavy shoulder into the door and pinning it shut. Cullen grabbed the cot next to the entryway and wedged it tight against the wooden threshold. Another cot was soon braced against the first, and a heavy crate full of medical supplies followed quickly after that. The pounding and shouting outside didn’t stop, but the door now refused to budge.

Once the door was effectively barricaded, Cullen fell limp against the wall and his sword clattered to the dirt. With a sickly sensation in the pit of her gut, Merrill saw the blade was dripping with blood.

“Cullen, what the hell just happened out there?” Varric demanded, concerned enough that he didn’t bother using the nickname he’d given the man.

Cullen shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow with one armored hand. His voice was shaking. “Some fool smuggled a pouch of fire grenades into the crowd. Tried to throw them at the clinic door. Hit one of my men.”

“And?”

“The Templars responded in kind. I tried to stop them, tried to hold them back, but—”

He shouted and punched the wall with his armored fist. “Damn it, why didn’t they listen?!”

“What does that mean?” Merrill said, her eyes wide as she glanced between the Templar Knight-Captain and the dwarf standing behind him. “What’s happening?”

“It means the Templars got a little too bloodthirsty,” Varric growled. “They attacked the crowd and lost. Are they dead?”

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. “If they weren’t before they soon will be. The mob is determined to storm the clinic and abduct the Champion to take to the Tower. Or kill her outright, depending on who you ask.”

Merrill squeezed Hawke’s hand tighter. “W-what do we do?”

Cullen shook his head and scooped his sword back into his hand. He didn’t slide it into his sheath, instead gripping it tight in one gauntleted fist. His eyes carried a dark, steely look as he watched the door and listened to the enraged fists beating against it from the outside.

“ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

“Open up this door, Knight-Captain!” that same sneering voice shouted through the clamor. “You can get skewered along with the Champion and all the others, filthy mage-lover!”

“ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

 _BOOM!_ Another explosion as a fire grenade detonated somewhere beyond the door.

“Prepare yourselves,” Cullen snarled, a dark scowl on his rugged face. “They’re coming.”

 


	7. Seeking Truth

Marian’s seventeenth birthday came and went; a quiet family affair, just like she had wanted. The Hawkes all gathered in their tiny cottage, together as a family for the first time in a long time. There was a hearty meal, mostly thick stew and hard, salty bread, and a platter of delicious sweet honey cakes for dessert. The twins argued over who would claim the last one, at least until Marian took advantage of their distraction and nicked it herself. Mother scolded her, of course, but Malcolm rested his hands over his belt buckle with a twinkle in his eye, laughing as his eldest licked at her sticky honey fingers.

There were no gifts to exchange as the family had little extra coin for presents. Even Hawke’s meager salary from her job went to putting food on the table. That said, after dinner Bethany held out a tiny fist and cried, “Marian! Marian! I got something for you!”

Marian cocked her head at her younger sister with a smile. “Oh? And what is it?”

She held out her hand and the littlest Hawke dropped a tiny piece of jewelry into her palm. It was a ring, forged from dull hammered iron and inscribed with runes. A tiny gem twinkled from its top, but the entire piece was encrusted with dirt and mud. There was a dull, rustic beauty to the thing; a harsh practicality shown in its sharp lines and grooves that Hawke found strangely pleasing to the eye.

Bethany hopped away, eyes raking over her older sister’s face in search of approval. “I found it,” she explained, clutching tight to the edge of the supper table and peeking over with just her eyes. “On the ground in the markets. Someone must have dropped it.”

Marian raised an eyebrow with a smirk. The motion tugged at the scar over her eye. “And you didn’t think to return it?”

Bethany wrinkled her nose. “Return it? No. Whoever dropped it obviously has no use for it anymore. Probably belonged to one of the lord’s men, and they certainly have jewels to spare.”

Marian slipped the ring over her finger and admired the way it fit snugly just below her knuckle. Then she pulled Bethany into a tight hug. The little one let out a murmur of protest, but grudgingly allowed the show of affection from her elder sister.

“So you like it?”

“I love it,” she said, ruffling her sister’s hair. She pressed a kiss to the girl’s temple. “My little jewel thief.”

Brooke was not there to share in the festivities. The day before, Malcolm had gently informed Marian’s friend that the birthday was to be a private gathering for family and she was not invited. When the news reached her of the successful delivery of the message, Marian was consumed by equal parts relief and guilt; she was glad she hadn’t been the one to politely refuse Brooke entry to the gathering, but she also knew her friend had put a lot of effort into organizing a special day for her. Papa had unhelpfully enlightened Marian as to the preparations for such a day: Mother needed help with her sewing in order to take a break, the twins needed to be excused from classes at the Chantry, and Papa needed to somehow weasel out of work for the lumber master.

Brooke had helped in all these matters with a strange kind of determination. She had spent hours with Mother sewing and mending and patching jerkins and trousers. Later she had spun an impressive tale about a strange Orlesian illness that had befallen the twins and all but demanded they be released from classes for the day if not the week. And, most impressively, she had lent aid to Papa at the lumber mills, using their combined wit and cunning to convince the lumber master to travel out of South Reach and meet with an (imaginary) envoy from the Dalish clans of the Brecilian. The woodland elves supposedly wanted to negotiate trade in return for logging rights in the forest.

It almost broke Marian’s heart to all but spit in the face of such hard work. But Marian stood by her decision, convinced it was the lesser of two great evils. She still didn’t trust her feelings around Brooke. And given the Free Marcher’s strange behavior in recent days, she _certainly_ didn’t trust Brooke.

The passing of the party date fixed things — in a manner. Marian no longer had to worry about confronting Brooke in the wake of the festivities because Brooke suddenly stopped showing up at the stables for her usual chats. She also didn’t show up at the tavern after work, where she and Marian usually loitered to soak up local gossip and complain about their respective lives. Her absence was more than just coincidence; it didn’t take a genius to realize the girl was hurt by Marian’s decision and wanted to put some distance between them.

In a strange way, it was a good thing. Distance was exactly what Marian needed at the moment. As terrible as it sounded, she preferred if Brooke was hurt than front and center and confusing her still. The young Hawke needed time to sort out her thoughts, time to decide what she truly wanted from their friendship.

The rumors still swam throughout South Reach, finding all the right (or wrong) ears and tongues perfectly suited to propagate the lies. Mother was still calmly oblivious to the word on the street — she was used to living life far above the everyday gossip of working peasants, after all — but Marian was inundated in it everywhere she went. Children from the Chantry and their lecherous fathers leered at her when she went to pick up the twins from their classes. Those who knew her in passing joked about it when they saw her, saying things like, “Surprised to see Moorlay detached from you for once,” and “Has she asked you for money yet? Free Marchers always do before long.”

Before, the rumors had dug at her like tiny verbal daggers. She was suddenly in the spotlight again, just like when she and her family had first emerged from the forests and everyone felt the need to point out her horridly scarred face.

But now, after the accusations and insinuations had begun to really sink in, she found herself reacting very differently. She flushed now whenever the subject was raised and awkwardly stared down at her muddy boots while inwardly cursing herself for acting like some starry-eyed Orlesian schoolgirl.

The fact of the matter was that the rumors had stirred something in her. Some deeply-buried part of her that, perhaps, she hadn’t allowed herself to see before. She _was_ attracted to Brooke, she realized. The redhead was kind and beautiful and obviously cared for Hawke in a way no one had before. She was _different_.

But Marian had never been this close to someone before. Her family had always fled civilization before she could build any meaningful relationships with her peers. What if the same thing happened here? If she opened up to the idea of a relationship with Brooke, would Marian be snatched away from South Reach like she had been snatched from every village before? It had been hard enough to leave behind her past lives when she was little, barely more than a lonely child kept carefully guarded by her fugitive parents. If she put down roots here and built something with Brooke, would she be able to so easily move on if something happened again?

And then there was the big problem, the bronto in the room. If she did start some kind of relationship with the Free Marcher girl, how long would it be before her magic was brought to light? And when that day inevitably came, how would Brooke react? She couldn’t just come out and tell her, of course. Years of living in hiding because of her so-called “gift” had distilled in her a deep aversion to trusting anyone else with the secret. And besides, the last person who had discovered her abilities was…

Her chest tightened at the mere thought. _It was the Templar. The one back in the woods. The one who…_

She couldn’t bear to finish. Her skin still crawled at the memory of the vengeful knight with his beautiful armor and his bloodthirsty sword. Her twisting scar throbbed every time the man came to mind, a phantom reminder of those terrible days after her injury.

At the end of it all, it wasn’t Brooke she was truly afraid of; it really was herself and her many, many secrets. As far as Brooke knew, Marian was a normal seventeen-year-old girl with a perfectly normal family. And Marian might not know much about love and courtship, but she was sure basing an entire relationship on a lie was not a great way to start.

So, as was customary in situations such as this, she decided to take the matter to her father. Papa would know what to do. He was, after all, the smartest person she knew. _Wise beyond his years_ as Knight-Captain Trevor liked to say.

The moment to bring it up came one muggy evening after Malcolm returned from his post at the lumber mill. She found him sitting outside, legs folded with his back against the cottage wall. He was silently watching the sunset, eyes roaming over the dizzying array of oranges, purples, and blues that lit up the evening sky. He coughed a bit, hiding and holding the outbursts behind one heavy, calloused hand, then was still once again. A bottle of brandy was lying in the dirt next to him, the bottom of the bottle dug into the ground so it would remain standing when not in its consumer’s grasp.

The years had not been kind to Malcolm Hawke. Since moving to South Reach he seemed to have aged two decades, and appeared to be jumping forward even quicker as time continued to inevitably march by. His long hair and beard had gone gray, bleached bone-white in some places, and his chiseled face was hidden under an ever-deepening mask of wrinkles. His skin was pale and dark around the eyes, giving him a pallid, almost sickly, sunken complexion. And Marian couldn’t help but notice how often he grew sick these days, coughing so hard it doubled him up and left him gasping for breath.

But despite the weight of years and illness holding him down, his steel-gray eyes still held their trademark humor, shining with an ever-present internal flicker of kindness. That look fell on her when she rounded the corner of the house to find him. A smile pulled at his chapped lips and he gestured for her to join him.

She took a seat at her father’s side, hugging her knees to her chest. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him a little, enjoying the quiet moment and the beautiful scenery. Together, they watched the trade caravans trundle along the main road toward the village, watched long trains of mules and brontos laden with goods as they lumbered past their quaint little cottage. A stocky dwarf with strings of beads woven into his beard waved to them as he passed and Malcolm returned the gesture with a tip of his brandy bottle.

“Nice night,” Papa remarked as the caravan moved on. He took a swig of his drink, then returned it to the dirt at his side. “Warm. Calm.”

Marian nodded in response. “It’s… perfect. Or as perfect as South Reach can get.”

“What could make it better?”

“Well…” she pretended to stroke her chin, lost in thought. “The town does seem to suffer from a distinct lack of dragons.”

A hefty laugh from the man beside her now as the arm around her shoulders squeezed affectionately. “You and your dragons, girl. Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

“Sometimes I think about nice shoes and fancy clothes,” she admitted. “You know. Girl stuff. But it always seems to come back to dragons in the end.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.”

They fell into a calm, contended silence for a few long minutes. The sun continued its descent into the dark womb of the horizon. When the color above had changed hue from red to a bluish purple, Marian licked her lips and spoke again.

“I wanted to thank you. For talking to Brooke about my birthday.”

Her father tipped his head and took another pull at his drink. “She wasn’t happy. You might be singing a different tune before long. That girl has fire in her, the likes of which you’ve probably never seen.”

“I know, but…” she let the words hang on the warm evening air, grasping for more to follow. “I just didn’t know what to say to her. How to ask her to stay away without… well, without it _sounding_ like I wanted her to stay away.”

“That silver tongue of yours still needs some practice, I see. You should come down to the mill some day and debate shipping prices with the fellow who runs the supply caravans from Denerim. You’ll be a master of debate and manipulation by week’s end. That or he’ll swindle you out of house and home and the mill will be broke in the span of an hour.”

She snorted a little, unable to conjure a full laugh. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “Why did you not want Brooke there anyway? I’m sure she would have gotten you a present, at the very least.”

Here was the moment she’d been waiting for. The matter had finally been raised between them. But now that the question was out in the open, she found herself hesitant to answer it in full. Her heart was racing in her chest, thudding uncomfortably up against her ribs so hard she could feel it pulse through her thick leather jerkin.

“It’s… complicated.”

“Girl stuff?”

She laughed now — a real laugh, free of fear or anxiety. “I guess you could say that.”

Malcolm sighed. “Well I’m afraid I’m not much help there. Apart from occasionally wearing a dress, I’m not much in tune with girl stuff.”

She giggled. “They’re robes, Papa. Not dresses.”

He responded only with a wink.

There was another long period in which silence ruled. Then Marian began again.

“Papa… I have to ask you something.”

“No,” her father instantly replied, “I don’t know when Bethany and Carver will be moving out of your room. I’m still getting the plans together for that addition to the cottage. It’s going to be a bugger to build it without magic, but your mother insisted we do it the _normal way_.”

He made sarcastic air quotes with his fingers as he said it. She giggled again and said, “No, no. Not about that. It’s… it’s actually what we talked about before. When you sent the alderman’s son away.”

“Oh?” He drew the brandy bottle away from his lips, a small spark of alarm in his eyes. “Has he been causing you trouble?”

“No. But I’ve been thinking about what you said that night. About being a mage and how difficult it can be? And also about… about finding love. And how difficult _that_ can be.”

He chuckled. “Aye. No shortage of troubles facing down a growing Hawke, eh?”

She nodded seriously. “You said it. But… but what if they’re one and the same? What if you were afraid to show what you truly were to someone? Because you were a mage, but also because… because of what it might cause.”

“Love?”

She nodded with a gulp. Her heart seemed to have clambered up into her throat now, but had lost none of its distracting, thudding strength. “Yes. What if you were afraid of that love? Of what it could mean? For you and… t-the other person.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Marian hissed between her teeth. “It’s…”

“Complicated.”

“Uh-huh. Because…” Her every instinct was screaming at her to stop talking, to shut her stupid fat mouth before she let the secret out. But some part of her willed her to continue. This was her father, after all. If she couldn’t talk to him, who could she talk to?

“Well,” she finally said, “it could get me in trouble.”

He made a short sound of derision. “Just who are you eying up? The blighted King of Ferelden?”

She scoffed. “Sorry, but King Cailan isn’t really my type. Besides, he’s already married.”

“A father can still have high hopes for his daughter,” Malcolm said, a small smile suggesting he wasn’t entirely serious. “Can’t blame me for wanting to live out my twilight years in a palace instead of a wooden cabin on the edge of South Reach.”

“I’m serious, Papa.”

He sighed wearily. “All right. Seriously, then. Who is this mystery man causing you so much grief?”

“It’s, ah…” she gulped and charged ahead before her misgivings could hold her back. “It’s not a _he_.”

Silence from her father. For a single heart-stopping moment she thought it was a disapproving silence. But then he sniffed and matter-of-factly said, “It’s Brooke isn’t it?”

Her eyes snapped over to him, stretching wide with alarm as a deep blush colored her cheeks. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then scoffed and nudged at her with the arm still around her shoulders. “Oh come off it, Marian. You really thought you were being sneaky, keeping her from coming to the party?”

“So… so you know?” Her voice was tiny and tight with fear.

“I suspected. Have suspected for a while. But you didn’t want to talk about it so I let the matter rest. You’ve never been one to hide from your feelings, Sparrowhawk. I figured you’d bring it up when you were ready.”

She let out a sigh and hugged her legs closer, resting her chin on her kneecaps. “I don’t know if I’m ready. For any of this. It’s all so confusing.”

“Why?”

She looked at her father as if all reason had flown from his head like a startled raven from its nest. He returned her incredulous stare with a single raised eyebrow and took another swig of his drink, as if challenging her to argue with him.

“Why is it confusing?” he repeated.

“We’re both women, for one. That’s… not normal.”

Her father frowned and set his drink aside. “According to who’s authority? The Chantry? The Qun? The Imperium? To my knowledge only the latter would really be angry with you for such an apparent affront.”

“B-but—”

“Love is love, Marian.” Her father’s voice took on a harder tone. “And no one has the right or the authority to tell you otherwise. If you have feelings for Brooke, then you have feelings for her. That she’s a woman holds little meaning so long as that core fact remains true.”

“But I don’t _know_ if I like women!” Marian insisted. “I-I mean, I didn’t like the alderman’s son, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like _all_ boys!”

“Then you like men too.” Her father shrugged. “You’re allowed to like both. What about this is so difficult for you to understand?”

She sighed explosively and let her legs slide out in front of her. Her spine and shoulders thumped against the wall, the back of her head following soon after. “All of it! I know I feel… _something_ for Brooke. And I know she has feelings for me.”

Her father nodded in solemn agreement, pursing his lips. “She made that much clear when she was told she couldn’t come to the party. Though she may have been angrier at missing out on your mother’s famous ham stew. Who knows?”

Marian ignored the quip and continued, “But there’s some part of me that holds me back. That says this isn’t what I think it is. And the more I think about it…”

“The more afraid you become,” Papa finished. “I know what you mean. _Courter’s nerves_ we called it back in Kirkwall. You’re afraid of rejection.”

“No,” the girl shook her head emphatically. “No, because I know I won’t _be_ rejected. Not with Brooke. But I am afraid… of starting something and then losing her. Of losing all of this.”

She gestured to the beautiful sunset, to the caravans still sluggishly passing by on the road. To the not-too-distant twinkling lights of South Reach. Malcolm followed the path of her gesture, taking it all in with her in silence. After a moment, however, Marian’s hand fell limp back to her lap.

“The twins were too young to really remember the forest,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. “But I do. And I remember the village that came before. And the village before that.”

She hazarded a glance over at her father, who suddenly looked very grave. The brandy bottle was sitting forgotten by his side.

“We’re apostates,” she said, carefully lowering her voice so the breeze couldn’t catch her words and carry them to the caravaneers passing by their property. “We live our entire lives on the run. Sometimes we may settle down for a time, but we were never meant to have peace. To feel love. To—”

“Untrue,” Malcolm suddenly interjected. “That’s what the Chantry and the Templars would have you believe.”

“What?”

Papa sighed and mirrored her position, letting his head fall back against the comforting solidness of the wooden wall at their backs. “Marian, you think too often in simple terms and labels. _Mage_ and _Non-mage_ , _Templar_ and _apostate_. Even the words that idiot boy said to you, _damaged goods_ , upset you more than they should have. They’re just words, created to help smaller minds comprehend the world around them.”

He looked over at her, eyes shining in the light of the dimming sunset. “You’re more than the labels that are placed upon you, Marian. You may be a mage and an apostate and whatever else you like. But beneath all that lies a single, inalienable truth: you are a _person_.”

He put a hand against his chest. “I am a person. So is your mother and so are the twins. Together, we make a _family_. And those labels carry far more power than the ones you seem fixated upon. And apostates may not be able to settle down, to find peace and feel love. But _people_ can.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “I can’t promise you that our days of running our over. I can’t pretend like we’ll all live happily ever after here in this little village. But I can tell you that it’s possible. And I can promise you that someday, somewhere, you _will_ find peace. We all will.”

“Let me guess,” Marian said with a dry smirk. “We’ll find it in the arms of the Maker? The bosom of Andraste? When we’re dead, in other words?”

Her father let out a quick, short huff of a chuckle. “You beat me to that by mere moments.”

But then he continued in that same serious tone. “You will find a place to call your own. It may be here, in South Reach with Brooke. It may not be. But until you _try_ , until you look past the labels, you’ll never know where that place is.”

“But how will I know when it’s the right time to try?” She still wasn’t completely convinced.

“It’s easy.”

“Bullshit.”

“May the Maker strike me down if I lie,” he said, holding up a hand as if swearing an oath.

“Then keep talking. How do you figure it out? How can I figure…” she gestured vaguely to the air around her, “all this out? Brooke and me and all the rest?”

“You just step back, take stock of everything around you, and ask yourself a single, very simple question.” He turned to her and fixed her with that powerful slate-gray stare, as if daring her to look away.

“Is this worth fighting for?”

The words died on the evening air and the decision was made. Marian reacted instinctively, primally, as if she wasn’t really in control of her decisions at all. As if some great higher power, simultaneously directing her actions from above and within her, from just behind her heart, had forced the decision upon her still fraught and indecisive mind.

 _Yes_ , she thought. _Brooke is worth fighting for. This place, this life, this_ family _is worth fighting for. It’s worth dying for if need be._

She suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to say it out loud, to leap up and shout it, sing it, scream it for the whole world to hear. Noise granted legitimacy, made it so that no one could question her judgment or commitment. But, given the sensitive nature of the subject matter, she settled for a short nod and a quiet, “Yes.”

Her father, who had turned back to his drink and the sunset, obviously thinking she would take time to mull over his words, looked back at her with a surprised expression on his tired, lined face. “Come again?”

“It’s worth fighting for,” Marian said. Her voice was louder, stronger this time. “ _She’s_ worth fighting for. She’s the kindest person I’ve ever met, the first one to see more to me than just my scars. She’s worth it, Papa. And I’m going to tell her that.”

He blinked at her, then jostled the arm still around her shoulders with a grin. “Well good for you, Sparrowhawk. I’m glad you’ve made the decision at last. And this is just a hunch, but I think Brooke will be happy too.” His eyes lit up. “Ooh! Do you want me to bring flowers? Sprinkle the petals down over you and sing like a cherub as you tell her?”

Hawke smiled sheepishly, blushing again. “I think I can talk to her on my own, thank you.”

“Ah,” he sighed with a good-natured chuckle. “You’re no fun any more.”

Despite the seemingly unstoppable smile determined to pull at her lips, she found herself compelled to ask, “A-and you’re sure you’re not mad? Or upset? Or… or…”

He waved a hand, dismissing the question with a grimace. “You know me better than that, Sparrowhawk. Just don’t tell your mother yet. She’s dead set on seeing some little Hawke grandchildren within the next decade. I guess the twins are our only hope for that dream to come true now.”

She frowned, thinking him serious for a moment. But then he shot her another sly wink and a mischievous grin. She shoved at his chest with a laugh and settled back into her earlier position again, resting her chin on her knees as she watched the last tendrils of the sunset sink below the distant mountains.

“So I have your blessing?” she finally asked.

Papa nodded. “Not that you’d listen if I said no. But I have one condition.”

“Oh?”

“When you and Brooke get married, you still have to let me walk you down the aisle,” he said. “I may not have a problem with the rest of this, but that’s where I put my foot down. Deal?”

She pondered over his words, then smiled at him. “Deal.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.” He shifted, pulling his arm from around her shoulders as he reached over to his other side. A second later he produced the bottle of brandy and held it out to her. When she didn’t immediately grab it, he shook it for emphasis and said, “Well don’t just stare at it like it’s grown fangs. Take it!”

“A-are you sure?” she stammered, taking the bottle from him. It had warmed in the light of the setting sun, but she didn’t know if that would matter. She’d never been much of a drinker before, and Andraste forbid Mother found out.

“With everything you’ll be facing down when that sun comes back up tomorrow,” her Papa said, “I think a little liquid courage in your belly would do you good.”

Hard to argue with that kind of logic. So she raised the glass and tipped it toward her father in toast.

The first swallow was sharply bittersweet and stung her throat as it went down. The prickly lukewarm taste didn’t help either. She almost spewed it all out her nose and broke down coughing and covering her mouth with the back of one hand.

“Maker’s balls,” she gasped once she was in control of her breathing once again. “That goes down rough.”

But she took another swallow. It was a little easier.

After a few moments her nerves began to even out, like someone gently pulling tangled thread tight. She sighed and rested back against the house again, looking up and watching as the stars began to burn through the purple-black of the evening sky. The caravan finally passed them by, leaving the two Hawkes in peaceful, blissful silence.

She reached down and took her father’s hand. Squeezed it gently. “Thank you, Papa.”

“Any time, anywhere.” The way he said it made her think he meant every word.

“Will you stay with me? Watch the moonrise?”

Her father scoffed. “Well you can’t very well head inside with the smell of alcohol on your breath, can you? Your mother would have a fit.”

Marian snickered and threw back another swig of the brandy. It still stung, but it left a warm, pulsing sensation in the pit of her belly. “Well when you put it that way, it almost makes me want to hop up and run inside right now.”

“The day has been dramatic enough, Sparrowhawk,” Malcolm murmured, staring up at the sky with her. “Let the night, at least, be calm. Give these old bones a rest.”

They stayed that way for a long time. And as long as it lasted, it was perfect.

~~~~~~~~

**Anders’ Clinic, Darktown**

Barely half an hour passed before someone in the crowd outside produced an axe and began chopping through the door. The _crack, crack, crack_ of the sharpened head against the thin wooden barrier set Merrill’s flinching with every staccato crackle of metal against wood. She cowered toward the rear of the clinic, refusing to leave Hawke’s side. Anders was with her, furiously trying to heal the worst of her wounds before the door came down.

Hawke had gone deathly pale, as if an invisible wraith had drained all the vitality from her body. She didn’t move any longer and her breathing had slowed considerably. Merrill didn’t need Anders’ experience with medicine to see what was going on: they were losing the Champion. Anders said something about hematomas and hemorrhages, about the way the brain could swell when put under pressure, but Merrill didn’t listen. All she cared about was watching the faltering rise of Hawke’s chest, ensuring the woman continued to breathe for the next moment and the next.

Cullen, Carver, and Varric were still at the door, piling everything they could against the entryway to deny the crowd outside. It wasn’t working well. When the chopping of the axe outside began, Carver hefted his longsword back and plunged it straight out, through the door. There was a wrangled scream and the chopping stopped. The young Templar drew his sword back, the blade now coated with blood.

The mob outside quieted for a blessed moment. Merrill heard muffled words being exchanged, feet being shuffled. Then the chopping began again and the crowd exploded once more into vengeful chanting.

“ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

They wouldn’t be deterred by hidden blades from within. They would have their blood one way or another.

Varric, as was his usual custom in stressful situations, was trying to liven everyone’s spirits by spinning one of the endless tales he had stored away in his head.

“Did I ever tell you…” he grunted, throwing his shoulder into a heavy packing crate as he pushed it into their barricade, “about this friend I had? She was part of the Legion of the Dead in Orzammar. Made a living fighting Darkspawn day in, day out, for ten years!”

“Penned into the Deep Roads,” Carver muttered, desperately hammering a brace across the door. “Surrounded by bloodthirsty monsters who’re trying to murder you? I can certainly relate.”

“I know, right? Well, she used to have this saying she shared with the other dwarves she fought with. _Pen em in and put em down_. Apparently one of the Legion’s favorite tactics was to herd the Darkspawn into a tight tunnel and detonate the supports, bringing the roof down on them.”

Anders perked up a little at that, his eyes taking on a sudden sharpness he had lost as the minutes ticked by. “You are not blowing up my clinic, Varric.”

“Of course not,” the arbalist snorted. He succeeded in shoving the crate into place and patted the top affectionately, as if wishing the inanimate box luck in the battle to come. Merrill could almost imagine the wish: _May an axe never find your planks, friend_.

Then he turned to find another box. “I’m just suggesting we blow up the _door_. It’ll take these shits a lot longer to mine through the rock walls.”

“There’s more than one door, you know,” Cullen pointed out. He was shoring up defenses at the other door to Varric’s right, bracing it with loose timbers and blocking the entrance with abandoned cots. It wouldn’t stop the crowd for long, but every moment was precious.

“Well I’m open to any other suggestions,” the dwarf huffed, his boots scuffling in the sand as he shoved the second box into place next to the first. “Blondie, how about conjuring up some magical firestorm to send these folks scattering?”

Anders shook his head, eyelids drooping as if he were nodding off. His fingers trembled as he passed them — and the magic flickering out from them — over Hawke’s bloodied and torn gut, still covered with its pale, plaster-like poultice.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice weak and quivering as badly as his fingers. “I’m about tapped out as it is just keeping Hawke stable.”

“Shame,” Varric grunted. “How ‘bout you, Daisy?”

Merrill flushed and looked down at her toes. “I’m not that good with fire. Hawke was always the one with the gift for pyromancy.”

“Well… shit.”

“Never thought I’d see the day I actually missed Marian setting things on fire,” Carver muttered, more to himself than anyone else present.

The axe returned again, chopping hard against the door. Another grenade exploded outside, making the walls tremble and forcing Cullen back a few steps. The door rattled on its hinges for a moment, then fell still. The Knight-Captain was instantly back at his place, hammering barriers across the threshold with twice as much speed and desperation written into his every movement.

Merrill watched the doors for a moment, not trusting that they wouldn’t burst inward as soon as she looked away.

 _I hate this_ , she thought. _Trapped in this place like a rabbit in a snare. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run_.

Not that she wanted to run. The _last_ thing she wanted to do was leave Hawke’s side, even if that meant standing and fighting — and quite possibly dying — here in the clinic.

 _I don’t run when I’m scared_ , she thought, jaw tightening with resolution. _I stand and face my fears. I’m like Hawke, not like…_

She didn’t want to even think the words that came next, but they sprang to mind anyway.

 _Not like Isabela_.

The pain of Isabela’s betrayal hit her hard and fast once again, worming its way into her gut like an invading dagger. She still couldn’t quite believe the piratess was gone, that Merrill would never see her again. She would never again hear her sultry laugh, never blush at her inappropriate jokes or giggle at her inebriated antics.

She could imagine the woman even now, as if she were still present with their group. She would be sitting on one of the crates Varric had pressed against the door, muscled thighs folded and provocatively exposing quite a bit of her almond-hued skin. She would be leaning on one knee, tossing one of her prized dueling daggers in one hand while antagonizing Carver with an enticing view of her ample cleavage. _Making the pup growl_ , as she liked to say.

 _Why’d you do it, ‘Bela?_ she found herself thinking once again. _Why did you leave, right when we needed you most?_

She knew why, though she was loathe to admit it. Isabela was a coward, plain and simple. She had been faced with a choice: stay and fight with Hawke, or flee to pursue her own selfish desires. And when that choice was pressed upon her…

Well, Isabela had never been all that good at going against her desires.

“I look out for Number One, always,” Isabela had told her one night, as they drank together at the Hanged Man. “Can’t get far as a pirate otherwise. Too many overeager fiends willing to stab you in the back. Or the front, come to think of it.”

Merrill had sipped at her tea — she lacked the stomach for the Hanged Man’s in-house brew, or any brew really for that matter — and cocked her head. “Number One? What does that mean?”

Isabela had shot her one of those lascivious smirks of hers and said, “Why, _me_ of course! Did you hit your head and suddenly mistake me for an altruist?”

She had shuddered as if the very thought upset her and kicked back another hefty swig of the Hanged Man’s draught.

“But…” Merrill had licked the foam from her lips. “But what about Hawke? And the rest of us?”

Another smoldering grin. Isabela’s arm — heavy, hard, and muscled from a rough life spent before the mast, yet somehow bearing a strange, smooth softness — fell around the elf’s scrawny shoulders and pulled her closer. Gentle lips had pressed against her cheek and Merrill shivered in the pirate queen’s embrace.

“You’re a close second, Kitten,” Isabela murmured. “I promise.”

Her voice had carried a note of awkward affection — as if Isabela herself were surprised by and unused to the friendship she shared with Merrill, Hawke, and all the others.

At the time, Merrill had taken the statement as a compliment. After all, it meant Isabela cared for her! _Her_ , a scrawny little Dalish outcast, in the good graces of a beautiful and dangerous pirate! She had never imagined her life would get so exciting!

But now, in the harsh light of reality, she realized how painful it truly was to be a _close second_.

Hawke suddenly bucked on her cot, her back bowing up, then folding in the middle. The woman coughed, then again. The third time, a spurt of blood flew from her lips and stained her chin.

“Anders?” Merrill was instantly clutching Hawke’s hand again. “Anders, what’s happening?”

“She’s having a seizure!” the spirit healer growled. “Dammit, dammit, _dammit!_ Varric, I need you over here!”

The stocky dwarf was currently helping Carver jam a long plank of wood diagonally against the door. He grunted and replied, “A little busy at the moment, Blondie!”

Cullen suddenly appeared at Merrill’s shoulder, deceptively silent for a man in such hefty armor. “What do you need me to do?”

Anders scowled at him. “Never mind. I can do it myself.”

“Anders—” Merrill began.

But Cullen scowled and cut her off. “I am here to help, Anders.”

“I don’t need help from the likes of you.”

But he didn’t object further when Cullen pressed down on Marian’s shoulders, holding the woman as she thrashed and convulsed. Cullen didn’t even blink as Marian coughed up blood again, spraying flecks of red across the chest of his already-filthy armor.

Anders closed his eyes for a moment, drawing up a pulse of mana within him, then jabbed his hands forward. There was a flash of light and when it faded, Marian was still. She was breathing regularly again, though her respiration now wheezed up from her lips in a harsh rattle.

“That’s enough,” Anders snapped, shoving Cullen away. “Get your hands off her. She’s asleep again.”

Cullen scowled at the mage and adjusted his pauldrons with a growl. “I am only trying to help.”

“We don’t need your help.”

“Anders—”

“Don’t try and defend your actions.” The mage shook his head with a dour sneer. “You don’t _help,_ Cullen. You cage and contain. You destroy. And when the desire strikes you, you Tranquilize.”

He spat at the ground beneath Cullen’s boots. “I don’t need that kind of help, Templar. And I’m damn sure Marian doesn’t need it either.”

Cullen reached out a hand toward Anders, no doubt seeking to put a hand on his shoulder. To comfort him somehow, to assure him they were all on the same side. But Anders’ eyebrow twitched and suddenly Cullen was hopping back, the armored glove of his right hand glowing red hot.

“Damn you, apostate!” Cullen spat, yanking his singed fingers from the smoking gauntlet. “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s about time someone stood up to you!” Anders shouted back. “After everything you and your kind have done to us!”

“Anders!” Merrill suddenly interjected. “This isn’t the time!”

“The time for _what_?!” Anders suddenly roared. The venom in his voice was so powerful, Merrill almost mistook him for Justice. She shrank back, eyes wide in the face of his rage. “To sit and watch as Marian dies? To wait here until the mob bursts down the doors and sets the clinic ablaze?”

He shoved away from Marian’s cot and spun away, running his bloodstained hands through his equally bloodstained hair. Marian continued wheezing on the cot behind him, though her seizure, thank the Creators, had finally stopped.

“Anders, we need you to—”

“To what?” he demanded. “My magic _isn’t helping!_ She’s _dying_ and there’s nothing I can do about it!”

He gestured to Marian. The woman had finally fallen still again, blood covering her chin and chest. Merrill could still hear the rattle in the woman’s breath, which seemed to grow weaker with every exhalation.

Against her better judgment, she moved away from her seat at Hawke’s side and took a step towards Anders. “Hawke needs you,” she pleaded. “She’ll die without you!”

“She’s dying anyway!”

“So you’re just going to give up?” Merrill demanded. Her voice took on a harsh, bitter lilt. “You’re going to let her die just because a _Templar_ offered to help?”

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Anders said through gritted teeth. “I can’t help her. I’m not powerful enough!”

“Then there is only one solution,” Cullen said from behind them. He was still nursing his singed hand. “Only the Circle has the power necessary to save the Champion’s life.”

Anders whirled. “No. _No!_ That’s out of the question!”

“Curly’s got a point,” Varric said, his back resting against the newest crate. “But somehow I don’t think that’ll appease the crowd.”

“No!” Anders hissed. “She’s staying here. I won’t let you put her in shackles, _Knight-Captain.”_

Cullen let out a short huff of frustration. “We have no time for this petty squabbling. Hawke’s only hope for survival lies in the Circle. The Grand Enchanter is incredibly powerful and reinforced by numerous mages of equal talent with healing magic as you, Anders. Orsino can help!”

“Power is worthless if you live with a noose around your neck.”

“Anders!” Merrill stepped up to him and put a hand on his arm. He jerked it out of her grasp.

“I won’t let her got to the Circle,” he said. His voice quivered dangerously. “I haven’t forgotten Karl and what they did to him. That won’t happen to her. I won’t let it.”

“That’s not your decision!” Merrill insisted. “This is about Hawke, not about you!”

“This is about the Circle! And I’m not going to let her get snatched off to the Tower like all the others. I won’t let that crowd outside get what they’re clamoring for. And I won’t let those fucking Templars take her too!”

Merrill hissed through her teeth. “That isn’t your decision!” she said again. “This isn’t about you or your crusade! This is about _Marian_!”

“But—”

“We need to think about _her_! She _needs_ us, Anders! And if you can’t see that, if you can’t look beyond your own fear and your own selfish wants, then you’re no better than Isabela! You… you…” A sneer tugged at her lips, her _vallaslin_ curling with her scowl. She shoved at his chest. “You _coward_!”

_Crack!_

For a moment, Merrill mistook the sound for the axe smashing against the door again. But then fire raced through the side of her face and her head was snapped off to one side. She staggered a little, her hand coming up to cup her suddenly beet-red cheek.

He had slapped her.

“Anders!” Cullen’s voice barked.

Varric was across the room with deceptive speed, almost instantly placing himself between Merrill and the gore-stained mage. A blink later his fist sunk into Anders’ stomach, doubling up the tall man with a _huff_ of escaping breath. The stocky dwarf followed up with a sideswipe to the nose that sent Anders reeling.

Carver placed himself between them, though not after he savored the sight of Anders bent over and wheezing, a self-righteous sneer on his gaunt face.

“This isn’t helping anyone,” The young Templar said. “All I care about is ensuring my sister lives through the next few hours. If you people can’t stop fighting long enough to help my sister, then you may as well go outside with the mob.”

“I can play nice.” Varric stepped back, cracking his knuckles with a dark scowl. A single dangerous, accusatory finger was leveled in Anders’ direction. “But you touch Daisy again and you and Bianca will be getting better acquainted.”

Anders nodded, blood dripping between the fingers that cupped his nose. When he spoke, his voice was thick and nasally. “Udder… udderstood.”

“Good. Now get back to work and no more whining. Merrill’s right; Hawke needs us and I’ll be damned if you and your fucking crusade get in the way of her recovery.”

Varric pointed to Hawke’s inert form. “She _does not_ die on your watch, Blondie. I don’t care if you have to get on all fours and lick Meredith Stannard’s boots to make it happen. One way or another, Marian Hawke is surviving this night. Am I understood?”

Anders sheepishly nodded and returned to his earlier seat. He wiped blood from his nose one more time, then stretched his neck — the bones letting out a rapid-fire crackle when he did — and returned to work.

Within a second, all the tension seemed to have drained from the room. Everyone returned to their previous tasks and the only sound that could be heard was the muffled roar of the crowd outside, still hammering away at the doors.

“ _Brand the Hawke! Brand the Hawke!”_

Merrill rubbed at her cheek, unsure of what to do with herself. Her body felt numb from shock and adrenaline, her skin still stinging where the slap had fallen. With dull, clumsy movements she returned to her seat and took Hawke’s hand again.

Anders didn’t look up. But she heard him speak with a voice that was barely more than a short, shameful murmur.

“Sorry.”

The little elf leaned back in her seat, closing her exhausted eyes and trying to will the dizzying surge of adrenaline out of her system. After a few endless moments she murmured, “I forgive you, Anders.”

Cullen glanced between them one more time. Then, satisfied their quarrel was over, he returned to the door and hefted another plank of wood onto his shoulder, ready to reinforce his already-complicated barricade.

Merrill sighed and pulled the rough green scarf from around her thin neck, using it to dab away the blood that stained the human woman’s lips and chin. Her voice was very small and weak when she spoke.

“I know…” she hesitated, her words failing her, then tried again. “I know you care about Hawke. You wouldn’t still be helping her otherwise. You’re… you’re not a coward.”

The rest of her sentence was spoken only for her, within the carefully-guarded confines of her mind where only her own heart could twist at the thought.

_Not like Isabela._

~~~~~~~~

A week passed and Brooke still refused to make any effort to reconnect with Hawke. Marian, in light of her recent decision regarding the young woman, began to worry that her time had passed and Brooke was too angry to listen to anything she had to say. She began to worry that she had destroyed any hope of romance between them before it even began, and this worry only grew the longer the Free Marcher girl remained absent from her life.

 _The next time_ , she thought. _The very next time I see her, I’ll take her aside and tell her everything._

But the week ticked by and no _next time_ came. Brooke seemed to have vanished from the face of Thedas. Marian didn’t see her at the stables, at the tavern, or even along the hidden forest paths the other girl liked to hunt. Hawke even passed by the Moorlay residence — a tiny cottage on the other side of the village from her own family’s cramped cabin — and saw Brooke’s parents and brother going about their daily duties.

The redhead was conspicuously absent. For a few moments Marian considered asking them where she was. Brooke’s brother Bolton was, after all, a decent enough fellow no worse than Carver on a good day. But she quickly tossed the idea aside and slipped away before anyone could spot her. If Brooke had told her family about Hawke’s aloofness, they would likely be just as mad as Brooke herself.

 _What am I going to do?_ she found herself fretting more and more often. _It would be just my luck to ruin our friendship before I even made up my mind about her._

But beyond combing the village house-by-house — which she wasn’t willing to do, as most of the local Templars were already suspicious enough of her secretive nature — there was nothing she could do. So she made up her mind to simply wait for things to cool between them.

Brooke would come back. She had to.

Yet as the days passed with no sign of the auburn-haired young woman, Hawke even found herself _praying_ things would work out. She was surprised at the sudden overwhelming desire to turn to the Maker for assistance; she wasn’t usually a religious person. But after six days passed with still no sign, she found herself on her knees in the tiny room she shared with the twins. She took a deep breath and folded her hands in the way the Chantry sisters had taught her. Her silver eyes closed and she took a deep breath before getting things underway.

“Oh Lady of Perpetual Victory,” she began. She kept her voice low so Carver wouldn’t hear and come to tease her. “Your praises I sing. Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable of your glory. Let me be the vessel which bears the Light of your promise to the world expectant.”

The words were hefty and awkward on her lips, but she said them anyway. If she wanted Andraste to hear, it was important to lead with the Canticle of Exaltations — at least according to her old tutors at the Chantry. Now that she was actually down on her knees, she was starting to wish she hadn’t half-dozed through the lessons on the Canticles. That fact alone might make the Prophetess unfriendly to what she had to say. But then, everyone said she was of a decent sort. Maybe she’d find it funny, as Brooke had.

“It’s, uh… it’s been a while,” she said. “I’m not really one for prayer. Maker knows, it’s been ages since I confessed my sins at the Chantry. And, well, I’ve developed quite the laundry list of sins since then. If there’s anyone who’s earned a reputation for being a troublemaker, it’s probably me.”

She paused, gathering up the words she needed to say. Only the most important ones; Andraste was a busy prophetess, after all.

“I need some help from upstairs,” she continued, “and I’m not sure how else to go about it. You see, I messed up. I hurt someone close to me, someone I didn’t mean to hurt. I made her think I… I dislike her, or think she’s weird, or… never mind. The important thing is that I want to make things right, but I need her to be open to it. She needs to want to fix things just as much as I do.

“You helped when Carver got that fever, years ago when he was still just a baby and we were living in the forest,” she continued. “He was so little and so sick, and Mother prayed every day for him to get better. And he did! He got so well so quick even Papa was saying it was a miracle and had nothing to do with his healing magic. Now, I’m not sick. But I hope you’ll help a Hawke out one more time. For old time’s sake.”

She looked up at the tiny, stylized painting of the prophetess hanging on the wall in front of her. Mother had bought it from a passing merchant ages ago and insisted it be hung in the children’s room so Andraste would watch over the littlest Hawkes.

She seemed so kind and serene, with her shimmering blond hair and tight, regal features. And even in such a simplistic painting, she carried an air of sadness behind those blue eyes; if anyone understood the pain of heartbreak it would be this woman, betrayed and murdered by her own husband. She would listen, wouldn’t she?

Hawke quickly looked away, back down to the dirty floor.

“This is important,” she said. “Quite possibly the most important thing I’ve ever done. And I want to do it right, but I can’t do _anything_ until Brooke shows herself. So could you help? Send her a dream about me or something? Just to… let me in. And give me a second chance.” She hesitated, her lips quivering. “I… I think I love her. And I want to make sure I didn’t mess things up. I want to fight for it, like Papa said. I just need the opportunity to. That’s all I ask. So… please?”

She debated a few moments, wondering if there was more she had to say. No further words came to her. So she bowed low and murmured the closing prayer. “By the Maker’s will I decree harmony in all things. Let Balance be restored and the world given eternal life.”

She sent one last mental plea of _Please, please, please_ , and finished, “Amen.”

She didn’t know if the prayer would help; Papa had never put much stock in the religion of the institution that had all but enslaved him. But Mother believed and so did her children. Marian felt hopeful for the first time since her birthday a week ago. She hoped Andraste had heard her plea and decided to take pity on a tiny, confused young woman with silver eyes and a scar on her face.

Two days later, her prayers were answered. But not, she would think later, in the way she had hoped they would be.

She was working at the stables, once more shoveling muck from the floor. It was amazing how quickly the horse pens began to stink again, and so soon after she’d scoured the place _last_ time. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, tied off with a length of twine she’d snagged from the hay bales, and she had a thick length of cloth wrapped around her nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the smell.

As usual, she was distracting herself from her duties by thinking of Brooke. Would she show up today, finally? What about after work, at the tavern? Maybe today would be the day everything fell back into place, back into the way things were before her birthday and the mistakes she had made.

She didn’t even have Dog to keep her company. Normally the loyal Mabari, who had been purchased as a pup by the Hawke family shortly after moving to South Reach, would be snoozing on a hay bale with his tongue lolling from beneath the heavy folds of his muzzle. But while the war hound had befriended and imprinted upon a young Marian, he was off with Papa today at the lumber mills.

She grimaced behind her makeshift face mask as she scooped another forkful of muck from the floor. It plopped into the slop bucket with a sickening squelch. She wrinkled her nose and muttered, “Better this way, I guess. Poor Dog has always had an oversensitive nose. Wouldn’t want to put him through this.”

 _I wish Horsemaster Lewis granted me the same courtesy,_ she thought. _I wish he’d hire on that dwarf from the taverns. The one with no sense of smell, just for the day._

The first sign that someone was approaching was when the horses tossed their heads and nickered loudly. Marian looked up at them and narrowed her eyes. That was when she heard the heavy boot steps crunching on the dry gravel outside the main room of the stables. Her heart leaped into her chest at the sound and she spun to the newcomer.

Was it Brooke? Had she finally decided to come back?

But it wasn’t the young Moorlay standing at the entrance to the filth-strewn stables. It was several someones, actually. Four to be precise, all young men about Hawke’s age. And standing at the head of the small posse was none other than the greasy-haired alderman’s son, his face twisted by a strange mix of smirk and sneer.

Hawke sighed with a scowl and pulled the mask from her face. “Horsemaster Lewis isn’t here at the moment. Can I help you gentlemen?”

The young men snickered nastily and the alderman’s son — Jesley, if Marian’s memory was correct — cocked his head at her. His smirk/sneer only grew wider and he said, “Too bad about the Horsemaster. Guess we’ll just have to deal with you, huh?”

“That’s right.” She scowled deeper. “I’m in charge while he’s gone. What do you want? You don’t have horses with you.”

“I don’t.”

“So why are you here?”

Jesley took a step into the stables, arms linked behind his back. “Just wanna… talk.”

She didn’t like the way his four friends moved in behind him, fanning out and cutting off her escape. They were still snickering and muttering between themselves. Her silver eyes darted over them and she lowered her pitchfork but didn’t drop it to the ground. Instead, her grip around the rough wooden shaft tightened until her knuckles were as white as snow.

Jesley swaggered toward her and waggled his forefinger at her. “You caused me quite a bit of grief not long ago. You disrespected me. Disrespected my family.”

As they drew closer, Marian couldn’t help but take a step back. She wasn’t far from the rear wall; the boys were pinning her in and they knew it. Before long she wouldn’t have anywhere to move and _definitely_ nowhere to flee. She’d be trapped.

Still, she refused to show fear to these thugs. She narrowed her eyes. “Not my fault you were a poor dinner guest. Try closing your mouth when you chew next time. Maybe then you’ll have more luck with the ladies.”

She expected Jesley to hiss at her, to scowl or shout with rage. But, possibly even worse, he smiled at her. It was an ugly smile, full of arrogance and snide confidence. He chuckled, the sound as ugly as his smile, and said, “Always so clever, eh? Always with a joke at the ready, eh? Think you can talk your way out of this?”

“I can talk my way out of anything.” She shrugged, masking her nervousness with sarcasm. Like father like daughter, Mother always said. “It’s a talent. Hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

“Well…” Jesley reached behind his back and produced a thick wooden club. His cronies pulled similar weapons: a heavy wooden ladle here, a thick stick there. One of them even had a knife. The alderman’s son flexed his grip on his club and shot her that same disconcerting sneer/smirk.

“There’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

“Hold on, fellas.” Marian raised a hand in a placating gesture. Her heart was racing now, the stink and slop of the horse stables completely forgotten. There was something in their eyes she didn’t like, a look of dark humor and bloodlust common among thugs and murderers. These young men wanted to hurt her, there was no mistaking it. “Hold on. Let’s not be too hasty.”

Jesley took one more step toward her and came to a halt, clapping his hefty club into the cup of his hand. “Can’t talk your way out of this one, Wolfbait. We’re here to pay you back for the disrespect you showed me.”

Hawke let out a short huff of breath and planted her pitchfork into the dirt at her feet. She didn’t let it go, but folded both hands over the blunt head of the tool. The desire to simply flick her wrists and encase the boys in ice was overwhelming. But she pushed down the desire, though not without difficulty. Her eyes never left Jesley’s sneering face, and her own features pulled into a dangerous snarl.

“You don’t want to do this.”

“You’re mistaken,” Jesley said. “I’ve wanted nothing else since you scorned me that night. You dishonored me, bitch. And that dishonor demands a response.”

“If honor is what you’re looking for, then bringing four cronies to beat up one defenseless girl isn’t the smartest course of action. If you were really honorable, you’d fight me one-on-one.”

The boys laughed again, smirking between themselves. A _girl_ , fighting against the alderman’s son? Preposterous. She didn’t even have her Mabari to back her up. All they saw was Marian Hawke, a normal-looking young woman with no military experience, no combat training, and no friends or father to rescue her from the violence she was about to endure.

But her words had the desired effect; Jesley’s smirk faltered for a moment, then he scowled at her and hefted his club once more. He shifted his balance from foot to foot, obviously weighing the validity of her words. Then his nose twitched and he snapped, “All right. Fine. We’ll do it that way. One-on-one, like the Qunari.”

 _I’d be more afraid if it was a Qunari,_ Marian thought. _Not this scrawny, greasy-haired blighter._

The alderman’s son jerked his chin toward her. “What’s your weapon of choice? If we’re doing this the honorable way and all…”

Marian wrapped her fingers around the handle of her pitchfork and yanked it from the ground. She hefted it in both hands and took a step toward Jesley. “If you want a fight, I’m sure I can make do with this.”

More snickers among the boys. Even Jesley cracked a smile this time, his gaze flooded with a dark lust for violence.

“If you say so, Wolfbait.”

The fight started without warning. One moment, the greasy-haired alderman’s son was standing in front of her with that same evil smirk on his gaunt face. Then his club swung up toward her head, no doubt hoping to knock her upside the skull and drive her to the ground before she could move to defend herself. She could see it written into his face; he thought he’d won already, thought she would be an easy victory. Perhaps he thought she would take one blow and fall to the ground whimpering and crying. Perhaps he thought that without her father to come and rescue her, she would be helpless to defend herself.

But Marian Hawke, daughter of the apostate Malcolm, was no defenseless Orlesian noblewoman who fainted at the sight of smudged dinner dishes. She was a Hawke and an Amell, and had lived a much harsher life than this privileged alderman’s son who arrogantly presumed himself to be the toughest blighter in South Reach.

Malcolm Hawke was a pragmatic, practical man. He had lived as an apostate for longer than she had been alive to know him. And in that time, he had taught himself to battle without magic as effectively as he did with it. The other mages in the Circle, he had told Marian, used their staves as little more than conduits to reach the magic that lurked within them. But Malcolm used the staff itself as a weapon, building on techniques perfected by Rivaini duelists. And he had imparted these teachings on his children, first teaching Marian and then Bethany when their magic manifested.

So when Jesley swung his club, fueled by narcissism, arrogance, and self-assurance of an easy victory, Marian was ready. She pulled her pitchfork, so similar to her father’s hefty training staves, up to counter the blow.

_Crack!_

The alderman’s son staggered back, thrown off-balance by the ricochet. The force of the blow traveled back up his arm and he howled, clutching at his hand. Marian smirked in triumph, but didn’t let up. She needed to press her advantage and show that she was _not_ to be challenged in this manner.

She took a single step forward and swung the blunted end of the pitchfork sideways. _Crack_! The pitchfork’s shaft smacked hard against Jesley’s ankles. He howled even louder, wailing in pain, and crashed to the ground. His thugs, standing still behind him, gasped audibly.

The pitchfork spun deftly in Marian’s hands, the bared muscles of her arms flexing as it whirled. The tines of the pitchfork came down and tapped against Jesley’s chest. He was breathing hard, looking at her with equal parts rage and surprise.

“First blood to me, then,” she said, not winded in the least. “Do you yield?”

She knew he wouldn’t. She knew the boy, raised on a steady diet of privilege and narcissism, would probably rather die than surrender. So when he scrambled back to his feet, covered in dust, hay, and horse muck, she wasn’t surprised. She was even less surprised when he hopped away from her, gestured with a trembling hand, and cried, “Get her!”

His four cronies charged. The pitchfork came up again.

The first lunged at her with his stick. She smacked it away with a twist of her weapon and planted her muck-covered boot in his solar plexus. He doubled up with a wheeze, out of the fight for the time being. The next swung the heavy ladle and connected with the small of Marian’s back. She winced and whirled, the shaft of her pitchfork passing within centimeters of his nose. He hopped back, eyes wide at his good fortune.

Marian didn’t have the chance to press her attack because the boy with the knife lunged next. Of all the thugs, he was the most dangerous. She dodged and hopped back, out of reach. _Charge a bow, but flee from a knife_ , as Papa used to tell her. She skirted along the rear wall of the stables, her boots scuffling in the hay as the horses tossed their heads and whinnied and the boys regrouped to attack her again.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

She forced the boy with the ladle away again, sending him staggering into Jesley. He shoved the boy away with a grunt and threw himself into the fray. The club descended and hit hard against the shaft of the pitchfork, forceful enough to send vibrations down Marian’s bared arms. She didn’t shove him back in time to avoid the incoming knife that scored along her bicep and drew forth a brilliant line of blood. She cried out and faltered, driven back even further.

The boys pressed forward, galvanized by the sight of her wound. She was pushed onto the defensive, forced to focus on blocking the incoming attacks rather than making attacks of her own. She could have driven them all back with a single telekinetic burst, of course. She could have frozen them in place, pummeled them with rocks from the gravel floor, or sent them scattering with a burst of fire or lightning from her fingertips. And she could do this all with barely more than a twitch of a single eyebrow.

She _could_ have done these things. She _wanted_ to do all of these things. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Because as dangerous as these boys were, they were nothing compared to the danger that faced her if she unleashed her magic and drew the Templars. If she used magic here, these boys would have to die to keep her secret. And even now, when they pressed in around her leering and snarling with weapons drawn and darting for her flesh, she didn’t want to kill them. Not unless she had to.

The pitchfork came up again, whirling and darting through the air in front of her. She smacked away the ladle and the knife, but Jesley and the fourth boy (unfortunately armed with only his fists) pressed in close. The unarmed boy went low, grabbing for Marian’s dancing feet, while Jesley went high. She felt strong hands wrap around her leg and tug just as Jesley’s club batted her makeshift staff to the side. She felt her balance shift hard and the world spun.

Then she felt a single terrifying moment of weightlessness and then she crashed to the ground. Her arm was pinned uncomfortably behind her back and she grimaced in pain. The boys pressed in around her, reaching for her, grabbing at her. But she didn’t let them get the better of her. She would not lose like this, pinned to the ground and surrounded by these idiot thugs with their ugly smiles. She hefted her pitchfork with one hand and swung with all her might.

_Crack!_

The shaft hit hard against the unarmed boy’s temple, sending him staggering into the other two. It wasn’t much of an opening, but it was enough. Marian scrambled to her feet and drew her staff up again. Just as she regained her balance, she felt a hard fist collide with her jaw and fire bloomed across her face. Her head was snapped to the side, the world flashing white for a moment.

“You like that, bitch?” Jesley leered. “How does it feel?”

But she was on the other side of the stables. The boys were now the ones pinned against the wall and Marian was not about to let such a clear advantage go to waste. She drew her pitchfork horizontally and shoved forward like she was pushing at a door that wouldn’t close. She caught three of the boys in the chest and thrust them hard against the wall. She pulled back sharply and jabbed forward again, slamming the hard shaft of the pitchfork against their collective sternums. They all grunted in pain and clutched at their chests.

But there were two boys she couldn’t catch and they were determined to keep her on the defensive. The knife darted out again and scored a long line down her cheek opposite the old scar that divided her face. She cried out as pain ripped down her cheek, holding a hand to her face. It came away wet with blood.

Rage surged deep in her gut, racing through her veins and consuming her mind in a dark red fog. She grabbed her fork with both hands and swung it as hard as she could manage. She purposefully aimed at head level.

_CRACK!_

The knife-wielding boy went flying onto his back, unconscious before he hit the ground. His dagger clattered to the dirty hay and filth-strewn floor. Marian saw his fall and smiled to herself, pleased at the small victory.

Her smug triumph was short-lived. A pair of arms suddenly wrapped around her neck. A second later, two thick, calloused hands grabbed her wrists and effectively immobilized her. A second after that, her pitchfork was yanked hard from her grasp.

A hard fist was driven into her gut and all the breath was forced from her lungs with a huff. She doubled up, feeling the muscles in her stomach spasm from the blow. The fist swiftly returned, this time hitting her in the cheek just below her scarred and non-functional eye. Her head whipped to the side and she felt rough hands in her hair, yanking her head back.

“See how it feels, Wolfbait?” Jesley’s voice hissed in her ear. Just ahead of her, she saw one of the boys bend at the waist and scoop up the fallen knife from the ground. Jesley’s hand dug even deeper into her hair. “You’re getting just what you deserve.”

The boy rounded on her with a crooked grin, the knife clutched tight in his meaty fist and the sunlight glinting on the dirty blade. Her eyes widened at the sight and she tried to struggle. But the hands at her wrists and in her hair kept her rooted in place.

 _This is it_ , she thought. _No choice now. I have to use my magic or they’re going to kill me. Or at least they’re going to try._

She could do it. A telekinetic explosion or a burst of lightning down her arms would send them flying away from her. They would scream and flee and never think to harm her again. She’d put them in their place, make them regret ever _think_ of attacking her at all.

Her hands clenched into fists. Mana surged within her. The knife drew closer.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Every set of eyes in the stables turned toward the sound of the new voice. When her eyes fell on the newcomer, Marian’s gray gaze stretched even wider.

Brooke stood in the stable’s entrance like a vengeful revenant freshly risen from the grave, hair flying in the breeze as her eyes raked over the scene inside. Her face pulled down into a furious scowl, her eyes blazing with fury. She took a step inside and demanded again, “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

Marian didn’t give the boys time to formulate an excuse. Capitalizing on the distraction, she wrenched one wrist from the grip at her back, leveled her arm, and drove her elbow back into her captors. She hit something hard, felt it fold under the force of the blow, and heard Jesley cry out in pain. The grip in her hair loosened and she ripped herself free.

She knew she didn’t have time to grab her pitchfork again and resorted to her fists. She punched and kicked at the two young men at her back, driving her knee into Jesley’s solar plexus before striking hard with the heel of her palm at the other boy’s face.

Brooke was suddenly at her side, grabbing Jesley by the back of the neck and pushing him toward the exit of the stables. One of the boys — the one with the wooden ladle — grabbed for her. But she whirled on him and snatched his wrist, twisting it behind his back and shoving him after the alderman’s son. Marian pivoted on one foot, grabbed the third boy by the throat, and squeezed. He choked and clutched at her wrist, but couldn’t break her iron grip. She walked him over to his unconscious friend, still lying prone on the floor, and threw him toward the body.

“Get out!” she shouted. “And take your idiot friends with you!”

Jesley turned to say something more, but Brooke slapped him hard before he could say a word. The _pop_ of her palm against his cheek was not too dissimilar to the sound of Marian’s pitchfork slamming against the hefty club. He whimpered and moved to speak again. Brooke slapped him again, even harder this time.

“Go!” she roared. “Get out of here! And don’t come back!”

Hawke stood at Brooke’s side, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. Blood was flowing freely down her face and down her arm and her heart was thundering in her chest. But she made sure to keep her pale silver eyes fixed menacingly on Jesley and his cronies as they fled, supporting their unconscious comrade between them.

Jesley looked back one time and Brooke instantly pointed at him and shouted again, “Go!” He quickly picked up the pace after that and the group quickly vanished around a corner and didn’t reappear. Marian remained still for a few moments, ensuring they didn’t come charging back with hidden reinforcements. But they didn’t return. The fight was over. A victory for Marian Hawke and her Free Marcher friend.

Her shoulders slumped and she let out a curse, wiping blood from her cheek. Her fingers were stained deep crimson, sticky and wet. The sight forced a grimace to her face and she muttered, “Bugger it all. I have enough scars on my face as it is. Damn that bastard with the knife…”

Brooke rounded on her, that same furious look on her face. “What the _hell_ did you think you were doing? Fighting five of them at once? Are you _insane_?”

“Uh…” Marian froze, staring at her friend with a confused frown. “They kind of attacked me, you know.”

Brooke shoved her hard, sending her back a few steps. “I don’t care! Why didn’t you run?”

“Run where? You didn’t deign to share the location of your super-secret hideout with me,” Marian snapped. “Besides, I could take them. You should have seen me earlier.”

Brooke eyed her friend’s wounds, lingering on the cut on her cheek and the bruise forming under her nonfunctional right eye. “Uh-huh. You handed them a right thrashing.”

“Hey, I was doing pretty well!” Marian huffed indignantly. “I still could have won.”

“Weaponless with your hands held behind your back? Your Pa may have taught you to defend yourself, but you’re not a goddamn Grey Warden!” She shoved at Marian again. “Stupid! Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!”

Her rage expressed, she fell still. She was quivering from head to toe, but some of the fire had gone out of her eyes. Marian felt herself relax too, though dull throbs of pain still pulsed from the cuts on her cheek and arm. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, pulling at her eyelids. She didn’t think she could grab her pitchfork again even if she tried. All she wanted was to find a comfortable hay bale and sleep, and the only thing keeping her on her feet was the memory of Jesley’s eyes as he fled from the vengeful young women in the stables.

 _He looked like an owl with those big eyes_ , she thought. _Or even a sparrowhawk! I never thought the nickname would be better suited to a bastard like that._

She couldn’t stop herself. She giggled.

Brooke looked sharply over at her with a scowl, looking very much like she wished to strike the raven-haired woman at her side. Then, after a few moments, her expression softened. She huffed out a short breath, then she laughed too. The two woman broke down then, the floodgates opening and allowing a torrent of mirth to burst forth from them both. They just stood there, laughing and clutching at each other as their adrenaline burned away in the calm.

“All right,” Brooke finally choked out after a few long moments. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, you crazy Ferelden warrioress.”

Marian didn’t fight her friend’s request. When Brooke took her hand, she allowed herself to be led back into the stables. The memory of Jesley and his sneering cronies were left far behind.

~~~~~~~~

Five minutes later they were sitting together on the hay bale. Brooke managed to find a rough-hewn rag and was using it — and a bucket of clean water — to clean Marian’s wounds. It took a long time to wash the blood from her arm and her sleeveless jerkin, and the gash in her bicep would need bandaging and maybe even stitches. Marian decided on the former option, as her father could easily heal up the wound himself once she returned home.

“Still bloody stupid,” Brooke was saying as she cinched a strip of cloth tight around Marian’s arm.

“They didn’t really give me a choice, Brooke.”

“Still bloody stupid,” the Free Marcher girl snapped. Her tone was harsh, but with a comforting note of concern. “You should have run. Should have come to find me.”

“I didn’t know where you were,” Marian insisted. “I haven’t seen you since…”

Since the birthday. Since the day Marian had, acting through her father, spurned Brooke’s hard work and pushed the young woman away. She still felt a twinge of guilt at the thought, a slithering worm of shame that coiled and writhed in the pit of her belly. Brooke’s gaze darkened as well, her lips pursed into a tight line.

“Yes, well…” She cleared her throat. “You’re just lucky I wandered around in time. I considered stopping by the tavern first, and I shudder to think what would have happened if I’d decided I was a little too thirsty.”

Marian smiled. “Well I’m glad you quenched your thirst before setting out. For my sake if nothing else.”

Brooke sighed and rinsed the rag in the water bucket, now tinged a light shade of pink from blood. She twisted the rag, letting the water pour back into its source. Then she touched Marian’s chin and set to wiping away the blood on her cheek.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that anyway?” the Free Marcher asked. “I always joke about you being a warrioress, but I didn’t think you actually knew how to hold your own like that. And with a pitchfork no less! I’d have chosen a sword myself, but—”

“My father…” Marian searched for an excuse, playing off her hesitation as a wince of pain when Brooke drew a little too close to the cut on her cheek. “My father used to be a mercenary. Did a few tours in Rivain where he picked up a few tricks. He thought it wise to pass those tricks on to his daughters.”

“Smart man.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, just a partial truth that left out a _very_ big detail. Marian squirmed a little, but this time it was indeed due to the pain in her cheek. Brooke scolded her for fidgeting.

“I figured Jesley would try to pull something,” she said as she worked. “He’s friends with my brother. Always thought he was a prat, but I never thought he’d actually attack you for refusing to bat your eyelashes and giggle at his every word.”

She snorted and shook her head, wiping blood from the corner of Marian’s lips. “You might want to keep an eye out in the future. He’ll be even angrier now.”

“I’ll have Dog hang around the stables from her on,” Marian said, enjoying the gentle touch of Brooke’s fingertips along her skin. “And now that you’re back…”

A sudden tension fell between them. Brooke’s eyes darkened and Marian cleared her throat and looked down at her lap. Her cheeks warmed and she cursed herself for it. After a few long moments she licked her lips and murmured, “Brooke… why did you leave?”

The dark look in the girl’s eyes didn’t fade. “You really have to ask?”

Marian sighed. “I know. Brooke, I’m—”

“I get it,” Brooke interrupted. “You know? I get it. I overstepped my bounds with you, let things get a little too cozy, and you obviously didn’t appreciate it. Should have seen it sooner, honestly. But I’ve learned my lesson and—”

“No, no, no!” Marian interjected now. “That’s not what it was. I didn’t understand, didn’t…”

She trailed off, gathering her thoughts and sucking in a deep breath. It was time, time to let loose everything she’d kept buried over the past week. It was clawing at her now, tearing its way up her throat. It wouldn’t let itself be contained any longer.

“I didn’t understand,” she said again. “And I was afraid. You’re… Brooke, you’re the only one who’s ever treated me like this. The only one who didn’t look at me like some weird, scar-faced girl who was raised in the woods like some Chasind savage.”

She chanced a glance up at the girl sitting next to her. The anger had finally left Brooke’s dark eyes and she was looking at Hawke with a strange look on her face; an expression caught somewhere between profound sympathy and some deep-seated sadness. Marian continued before she could allow her fear or Brooke’s features to overwhelm her with silence.

“Brooke… you’re the most special person I’ve ever met. You’re kind, you’re intelligent, you’re smart… and the last thing I would want to do is hurt you.”

“Then why did you send me away?”

More out of instinct than anything else, Marian fell back on her quick wit. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t like parties? Besides, Mother cooked that Orlesian ham they say tastes of despair.” She pulled a face. “The tales don’t do it justice.”

“Marian,” Brooke wasn’t amused. “It’s not about the birthday. It’s the fact that I put so much effort into making it a special day for you, when you would be surrounded by the people who were important to you. And… and when the time came, that special day didn’t involve me.”

Hawke was seized by a sudden urge to touch her, to comfort her and show her that she was wrong. That she _did_ think Brooke was important. So she reached out and clasped her friend’s hand. Brooke squeezed back tightly, then leaned forward and rested her forehead against Marian’s shoulder with a long, shaky sigh. Marian felt it cool against the skin of her arm.

“That’s why I left,” she said, her voice muffled against Marian’s shoulder. “I thought you didn’t want me in your life. Didn’t want me…”

She huffed and shook her head. “It hurt. And I was coming here to tell you that, to say that I would leave you alone if you wanted. And that’s when…”

“When you came to rescue the damsel in distress?” Marian said with a hint of a smile.

“That’s one way to put it, I suppose.”

She could smell the sweet scent of Brooke’s hair thick and heavy in her nostrils, drowning out even the sickly stink of blood and sweat that clung to her after the battle. She hesitated, then wrapped an arm around Brooke’s waist and pulled her closer. Brooke shifted and a hand came up to rest on Marian’s other shoulder, pulling her into a gentle hug.

“You’re wrong,” Hawke breathed into Brooke’s hair. “You _are_ important to me. I was just… confused. I’ve never been close to anyone outside my family. No one has ever _tried_ to get close to me. And so when you started trying… I didn’t know how to respond.”

When Brooke spoke again, her voice was very small. “So… you _want_ me? I-I mean—”

Marian smiled, a soft chuckle escaping her lips and ever-so-softly tugging at the strands of Brooke’s auburn locks. “Of course, silly! What would I do without my fierce Starkhaven protector to watch over me?”

Brooke giggled and the hand on her shoulder tightened. When she spoke again, her voice took on a tighter, heavier tone. She smiled and looked up at Marian with hooded eyes.

“You know,” she said in that same husky tone, “in all the old tales when the heroic knight saves the damsel, they’re rewarded with a kiss.”

“I heard that too,” Marian said. Her heart was racing in her chest now, even faster than when she’d been fighting against Jesley and his cronies. Brooke was close now, so close that she could see every flutter of the Free Marcher girl’s lashes, every flick of her eyes as they darted between Marian’s gray gaze and her slightly parted lips. She gulped audibly and continued, “But I’m not much of a damsel, you know. I was thinking of buying you a pint instead. Maybe a nice handshake and a pat on the back?”

“Don’t you dare.”

And then the hand on her shoulder went to the back of her head and Brooke leaned closer and their faces crashed together and they were kissing. The world jolted and ceased to exist. Marian sucked in a surprised breath that Brooke caught with her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed and everything around her devolved into dizzying sensations: foreign lips pressing insistently against her own, hands clutching tight to her neck and digging into her hair. Her own hand, tight around Brooke’s waist, drawing the other woman closer and closer, as if they could never get close enough.

They parted after a time. Both were breathing hard, eyes flashing and smiles on their lips.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to do that,” Brooke said breathlessly.

“Well then don’t just sit there like a stump,” Marian shot back. Her hand came up and cupped the other girl’s cheek, drawing her closer. “Get over here and enjoy your reward.”

Brooke smiled. “Yes ma’am.”

The next few hours passed in a blur. The two stayed in the stables for a time, kissing and laughing and clutching close to each other. But as they continued, something else rose between them. Something hot and primal and needy that set their nerves alight and had them greedily diving back for more. More kisses, more contact, smiles, more _everything_. They couldn’t get enough of each other, and soon the need for more drove them to seek a more private location.

There was a stockroom just beyond the main area of the stables. It was a tiny little compartment, usually piled high with sacks of grain for the horses. But Horsemaster Lewis’ stock was running low, and the normally cramped space was devoid of any other kind of tools, supplies, or furniture. After scouting around for a bit, Brooke managed to find a thick cloth horse blanket, meant to keep the steeds warm in the depths of winter, and the two spread it out over the hard gravel floor. Then the fire rose again and they were back in each others arms, kissing and nipping and laughing as they fell to the hard ground atop their makeshift bed.

Marian felt her heart flutter with excitement and anxiety equally as Brooke pinned her to her back and lowered herself down on top of her. The weight of the Starkhaven girl pressed against her felt heavenly, especially when she leaned down and caught her lips again. When Brooke’s whisper-soft kisses passed to her jaw, nipping along the strong line of the bone there, she arched her back and murmured contentedly. But the Free Marcher kept going lower, along her neck, along her collarbone, and lower still. And then her hands came up, deft and quick like the striking paws of the forest cats that had prowled by Hawke’s childhood home, and began unfastening the ties of her jerkin.

Almost instinctively, Marian’s hands came up and caught Brooke’s wrists. Her eyes were wide and full of a chaotic mix of desire, fear, and desperation. When she whispered, “Wait,” her voice was a soft and scared hiss of breath. Brooke instantly froze, her fingers falling still over the ties of Marian’s shirt. Concern wrote itself across every feature of her beautiful face.

“Is this too much?” she asked quickly, the words falling from her lips almost too fast for Hawke to follow. “Am I going too fast?”

“I-I don’t know,” Marian said honestly. Part of her wanted this, _really_ wanted this. In fact, it had been ages before she had wanted _anything_ as much as she wanted this girl, wanted to feel her skin beneath her fingers and her weight upon her chest. But another part of her seized up in fear, drawing tighter and tighter with every motion the other girl made. “Do _you_ think you’re going too fast?”

“I’m not sure either,” the redhead admitted. “I mean, I’m not exactly new to this kind of thing, but we Starkhaven folks do things differently than you do in Ferelden. We’re a little more… _forward_ in our affections.”

“Have you ever…” She bit her lip. ‘… _been_ with someone before?”

Wide-eyed, Marian shook her head. Brooke stared at her, apprehension on her face for the first time since the kisses began, and murmured, “I’ll stop if you want me to. We can save this for another time, when you’re ready. We don’t have to—”

Something else suddenly caught Marian’s attention. Her father’s words from that night they had sat outside the cabin talking. How he said she could find out if something was really worth doing by asking herself a single simple question.

 _Is it worth fighting for_?

She had thought Brooke was worth fighting for. She had known it instinctively, feeling certainty steel her nerves. In that single moment of clarity, all her anxiety had disappeared and she was left with a clear path forward.

And now, she realized, Brooke felt the same way. When she had discovered the fight in the stables, when she’d seen Marian pinned and wounded by her aggressors, she had leaped into battle without second thought or hesitation. She had felt that same clarity. To her, Marian was worth fighting for.

Suddenly her apprehension disappeared. Now, later, what did it matter? Time would only soften her resolve, give her ample opportunity to second-guess herself and push her friend away again. And the knowledge that she could bring this to a halt at any time, to back out if she grew uncomfortable, gave her all the strength she needed to say, “No. I… I want this.”

Slowly, her hands left Brooke’s wrists and she gave herself over to the care of this wonderful girl who had seen past her ravaged face and instead looked into her _heart._ This girl who had stuck with her through good times and bad, fleeing temporarily but always _always_ returning, even when Marian had foolishly thrown her devotion away. She didn’t know what the future held for either of them, but in this moment all that mattered was that Brooke wanted her. And she wanted Brooke.

 _Simplicity_ , she thought dizzily as her jerkin was unlaced and pulled from her torso, _is a hell of an aphrodisiac._

Her skin was bared to the cool air, gooseflesh breaking out across her arms. And something bloomed in Brooke’s eyes at the sight, something furious and lustful and so powerful it made Marian shiver even harder. Brooke bent down and their lips met again.

Time dissolved.

Their clothes were shed rapidly after that and for the first time they felt each other, _all_ of each other, and gasped at the incredible taste of discovery. The skin of Brooke’s shoulders and back, the gentle ridges of her spine, felt like silk under Marian’s fingers. Brooke’s lips found the soft joining between Hawke’s shoulder and neck and she latched on, ignoring her lover’s hiss of pleasure. Her hands, those gentle fingers, traced along her ribs, along her hips, over her thighs, and back up again. Marian’s came to rest at the gentle dip at the small of Brooke’s back, unable to do anything other than twitch and grasp and _feel_.

They kissed again and this time it was with a heated fervor. Their smiles were gone, replaced by insistent frowns and tense groans as both fought to climb the slope they had suddenly discovered together. Brooke was obviously more experienced and more talented in the heated arts of pleasure. The way her fingers, lips, and tongue moved over her lover’s body was nothing short of agonizing — but only in the best possible way. Marian felt her senses sing as Brooke drew close, could hear the thunder of both their heartbeats racing, racing. It was like they had suddenly caught the sun beneath their skin, like every ounce of mana Marian had ever conjured was summoned up all at once and set alight by some magical flame that consumed them both.

She had never felt anything so wonderful in her entire life. She doubted she would _ever_ feel anything so wonderful.

Yet that was proved wrong when later she threw her head back and a strangled scream that sounded more like a whimper tore itself from her throat. She lit up like lightning, bliss racing through her entire body with all the heat, force, and power of an Inferno spell. Brooke smothered her cry with a kiss, easing her through her pleasure with gentle caresses and whispers of love Marian could just barely comprehend.

And then it was after and they were lying together, feeling their bodies cool and the sweat dry on their skin. Marian was snuggled close, her face buried in the gentle curve of Brooke’s shoulder. Soft fingers traced up and down her side while the other cradled her head close, Brooke’s breath just barely tickling her hair, which had come loose from its loose tail and spilled down over her shoulders in an inky black curtain.

“You know,” Brooke eventually said after their breathing had returned to normal, “you should probably get back to work. Those stables won’t muck out themselves.”

“Fuck that.” Marian scoffed and pressed a kiss to her lover’s shoulder. “I’m staying right here. Never want this to end.”

“All good things do, my fearsome warrioress.” Brooke nudged at her ribs. “Come on. Up, up. I’ll help you get dressed.”

“But…” Marian drew back now with a frown. “But you didn’t get to—”

A finger against her lips. “There’ll be another time. I promise.”

“You’re sure?”

Brooke smiled, then consumed her senses with another of those world-shattering kisses. When she finally pulled back, her hand came up and caressed Marian’s cheek. The pad of her thumb traced over the gentle depression of the scar that stretched across her face.

“I _promise_ ,” she repeated. “But you have to promise me something in return.”

“Anything. Whatever you want.”

“Next time your birthday rolls around,” Brooke nuzzled against her neck with a smile, “you don’t even _think_ about keeping me out. Where you go, I go.”

“It’s a deal.”

“A _date_ ,” Brooke corrected. Then she patted Marian’s ribs again. “Now come on, love. Duty calls.”

“Five minutes,” Hawke protested, pulling her lover back down with her. “Just five minutes to enjoy this.”

Brooke found it difficult to deny such a request, so she nodded and kissed Marian’s scarred cheek, relaxing in her embrace. That hand went back to Marian’s head again, tracing and stroking her hair with an affectionate, repetitive motion. Marian closed her eyes and savored the sensation of warm skin, soft as fresh spring grass, beneath her fingers.

They remained that way for the next ten minutes. And as long as it lasted, it was perfect.

~~~~~~~~

Night fell over South Reach. And when it did, it was heralded by a horseman.

He came over the hills to the north, carried by a jet-black steed that snorted and tossed its head and gnawed at the hard iron bit between its teeth. The horse was powerful and magnificent, its coat shimmering in the near-darkness, and the saddle on its back was decorated with red draperies and shimmering metal studs. Sharp, angular blinders hooded eyes that glinted in the dark with a disturbing intelligence.

The man seated upon the horse was similarly adorned: black leather covered by black armor, all shrouded by a black cloak and cowl. A hefty sword was slung over his shoulder, the hilt inlaid with a single shimmering ruby. His features were thrown into shadow by his hood, but long locks of hair — black as the midnight-colored horse carrying him — spilled out from the shadows and fell to chest-level. He carried sharp spurs on his boots, but he didn’t use them. In fact, he didn’t seem pressured or rushed at all. His horse walked down the road at a near-glacial pace, as if the rider didn’t care about making it to his destination in a swift manner. As if he could afford to take his time.

The air seemed to cool several degrees as he passed by, prompting more than one Ferelden farmer to look up and shiver at his passing. The horse’s hooves churned at the dirt, leaving a steady and unerring trail along the road behind it. That trail did not waver or stop along miles of roads behind him, stretching far, far into the north.

Only now, at the borders of South Reach, did the rider pause. A pair of the arl’s men stood guard at the checkpoint along the road leading into the village, armed with long halberds and swords. A single Templar stood with them, the setting sun glinting on his polished armor. The knight held out a hand as the rider approached and his voice boomed out from the confines of his helmet.

“Halt!” the Templar called. “Who goes there? Stand and unveil yourself.”

The man made no move to dismount or to pull back the cowl shrouding his features. But that hooded face ever-so-slowly turned to regard the Templar, who suddenly found himself recoiling from the gaze with revulsion and barely-concealed fear. There was something unsettling about this man, some evil air that surrounded him and his magnificent steed. Something terrible lurked beneath the shadows of that cowl, the Templar was sure of it. He took a nervous half-step back and insisted, “Where do your allegiances lie, stranger? I would know your purpose here.”

A single gauntleted hand, inlaid with sinister iron studs like the rest of his armor, came up. The Templar fought back the urge to reach for his sword. But the hand delved beneath the neck of the man’s black armor and drew forth a necklace with a heavy pendant. The shrouded man pulled the necklace from his throat and held the pendant out for the Templar’s scrutiny.

It was a circular talisman, masterfully crafted from precious silverite with deep engravings etched into the surface. It was linked together on a dark chain, black like the man’s armor, horse, and cape. The Templar squinted to see the carved symbol through the slit in his helmet and the dimming light.

It was an _eye_. An open eye, surrounded by gently curving lines stretching out from the center like the waving arms of a seaborne kraken. But the Templar knew it wasn’t meant to look like tentacles, but rather the curving tendrils of fire.

The Templar stiffened a little and took a step back. He didn’t dare touch the pendant. He wasn’t allowed to. Wasn’t _worthy_.

An open eye caught in the midst of an inferno. There was only one guild in Thedas who carried _that_ sigil.

He bowed his head and thumped a fist against his chest. “My apologies, Master Seeker. I didn’t recognize you. You may pass unhindered. Enjoy your stay.”

The man said nothing. That hidden stare lingered on him for a moment. Then he spurred his horse onward and carried on down the road. The necklace disappeared, no doubt tucked into some shadowy pocket set into his studded black armor, and the horse tossed its head and whinnied. The sound echoing away into the darkening night and was echoed by other horses in the village. As he passed, the setting sun revealed the same flame-covered eye painted in brilliant white across his chest plate. Then the Templar turned away with a final shiver, determined not to pay any more attention to the black-armored man than necessary.

The Seeker passed by the checkpoint and continued down the road. He pace was still slow and steady, casual even. He didn’t look away from the path ahead of him and offered no farewell to the Templar or the arl’s dumbfounded guards. He just ambled down the churned dirt path, shifting a little as the motion of the horse jostled the saddle upon which he sat.

He didn’t need to rush, didn’t need to race for the twinkling lights of the village ahead of him. His destination would come soon enough, and his quarry would stand before him soon after that. Neither would be going anywhere soon and so he kept his pace slow and calm.

He was, after all, a man who could afford to take his time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Fantasy lesbians, religion, fathers actually being good parents… sometimes I think I’m deliberately steering this story toward subjects I know nothing about. Oh well, so long as you guys enjoy, I’m happy!
> 
> Until next time. Be sure to favorite or leave a review if you’re liking the tale so far. It really helps. :)


	8. The Green Eyed Wolf

**Anders’ Clinic, Darktown**

Something hard bashed against the door, hard enough that it sent Varric — who had been shoving another heavy box of supplies against it — stumbling to the ground. The wood bent inward, groaning and splintering. Cheers and shouts roared outside, followed by men’s deep chanting. A second later, the same heavy something crashed to the door and it splintered again.

“A battering ram,” Varric muttered, standing up and brushing dirt off his coat. “Where did they get a blighted battering ram?”

Cullen stood from where he’d been resting, sword held across his lap, near the back of the clinic. “The residents of Darktown are nothing if not inventive.”

“Glad you like ‘em, Curly,” Varric said, taking a step away from the door, “but our little barricade won’t keep out a battering ram. We’re trying to stop a mob, not a full-blown siege.”

“I know,” Cullen said. His voice was grim. “We can hide no longer. That mob will be through that door in less than half an hour.”

Merrill was pacing back and forth next to Marian’s cot. She hadn’t slipped into any more convulsions since Anders had induced a deep magical sleep, but she had gone deathly pale and her eyes were rolling violently beneath her lids. She burned with fever and it was clear they could no longer treat her with healing potions without risking a toxic overdose.

She winced at another hefty _crack_ from the door. “What do we do?”

“It’s obvious,” Carver said. He, too, was hefting his drawn sword. His shield was already in his other hand. He puffed out his armored chest with a scowl and said, “We fight. It’s about time we taught these bastards not to mess with us.”

“Are you insane?” Anders snapped. He jerked up from a hunched-over position like a drunkard ordering his umpteenth ale. “We can’t fight a battle in here! Not with Marian helpless like this.”

“So we move her,” Carver shot back. “To one of the back rooms, or—”

“Or,” Cullen interjected, “we take her to the Circle.”

Anders groaned and rolled his eyes at the suggestion. But Cullen pressed forward regardless. He planted the tip of his sword in the dirt to accentuate his point as he said, “She will be well protected there, by a full retinue of mages and Templars both. She will have full access to Kirkwall’s most talented healers. And there won’t be a mob on the verge of knocking the door down and killing her in her sleep.”

“No,” Anders scoffed. “They’ll be inside with her, holding swords to her throat while claiming to keep her safe!”

“Blondie, we’ve been over this already…”

The healer sighed explosively and slumped over again. He rubbed at his eyes with a muttered curse. When he looked up at the Knight-Captain again, there was a cold, hard look in his brown gaze.

“If we do this,” he growled, “do I have your word she will not be held against her will? That she’ll be free to leave when she feels it necessary?”

Cullen hesitated. “That is not my decision to make, but—”

“Your word,” Anders pressed through clenched teeth, “that she will not be made a prisoner. That she will be free to return to her estate as soon as she is healthy enough to do so?”

“For once,” Varric said, “I’m with Blondie. We’re not doing this so you can lock Marian up in the tower.”

All eyes were suddenly on the Knight-Captain. He looked between them, eyes darting over every frowning face. Time seemed to stretch on for an eternity, as if all existence was hanging on his response. Even the crowd outside seemed to quiet down in anticipation.

The tall, handsome knight seemed to shrink under the scrutiny. His hands tightened around the pommel of his sword with a grating scrape of metal on metal and his chiseled features pulled down in a grimace. He looked almost like a mournful hound, scolded by its master for attempting to steal a scrap of food from the table.

“Fine.” His words shattered the thick air that had suddenly invaded the clinic. “I give you my word that no one will attempt to halt the Champion’s departure from the Circle. She will be a guest, not a captive.”

Varric nodded and Merrill let out a relieved sigh. Carver grunted in appreciation and turned to face the splintering doors once more. Only Anders held the Templar Knight’s gaze.

“Swear it,” he said. “I want to hear you say it.”

Cullen stared right back, his jaw clenching. Then he released his grip on his sword and thumped his fist against his breastplate. His head was lowered in deference, his eyes fixed on his boots. Merrill had seen other knights take similar stances when in the presence of the Kirkwall nobility – or when swearing very important oaths.

“I swear,” the Knight-Captain said, “that I will do everything in my power to ensure Marian Hawke is free to leave the mage’s tower once this insanity has passed. And I swear to oppose anyone — mage, Templar, or otherwise — who tries to take that freedom from her. Upon my honor and the beneath gaze of Andraste herself, I swear.”

Anders looked surprised by the sincerity of the oath. He blinked a few times, as if he didn’t understand the words that had been said. But then his expression hardened and he nodded.

“All right,” he said. He hesitated, as if unsure where to go from there. As if he had never really expected Cullen to agree at all. “Then, uh… then let’s get Marian out of here.”

“The sooner the better,” Varric muttered.

The spirit healer stood from his seat at Marian’s side — a seat he had not vacated for at least four hours — and moved toward the back of the clinic.Piled up in the corner were several heavy pillars almost twice as tall as Merrill and at least three times as wide. They were support struts, left behind by some incompetent or lazy contractor when the clinic had first been built.

Normally they would have been invaluable in shoring up their makeshift barricade at the door, but Anders had insisted that they would not be able to move the struts, even with everyone helping. The construction team had employed the services of Qunari laborers, after all, and none present could match their strength. Merrill doubted one of the horn-headed warriors would have offered to help them, even before the uprising.

But now Anders waved his hands through the air and the giant pillars seemed to shimmer and undulate not unlike heat waves rising from the stone streets of Hightown on a blazing summer day. Then they just… melted away. Like a burning piece of parchment, a hole appeared in one, then another. The gaps grew until they consumed the pillars entirely, taking a good deal of the wall with them.What was left in their place was a hefty door made of the same old stone as the clinic walls. There was a tiny, barred window near the top and if Merrill stood on her toes she could just barely make out the sight of a tunnel stretching off into darkness on the other side.

Anders sighed and gestured to the door. “This is one of the reasons I chose this location for the clinic. This escape tunnel was once used by Tevinter emancipation fighters, smuggling slaves out of the city. It leads to the docks near the Lowtown markets.”

Varric moved forward and poked the door with a frown, as if not entirely convinced of its existence. When his prodding finger met only unyielding stone, he stepped back and hooked his thumbs in his belt.

“Why is this the first I’ve heard of this?” he huffed in mock-disappointment. “I thought I knew all your dirty secrets, Blondie.”

“I had to disguise it with an illusionary charm,” Anders explained. “It’s meant only for emergencies.”

“And this doesn’t count as an emergency?” Carver demanded. Behind them, the battering ram smashed the door again with another clatter of splintering wood. The young Templar ignored the noise and instead gestured to Marian’s limp form. “Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner? We could have left this place hours ago!”

“Because we couldn’t risk moving her,” Anders explained, returning to the woman’s side. He took her pulse, then returned to work with his healing magic, no doubt ensuring she was in good enough health to be transferred from the clinic. “And there was every chance the mob would disband and return home after a few hours. But now it seems we have no choice.”

“So…” Merrill wrung her hands, glancing between Hawke and their newfound escape route, “what are we going to do? What’s the plan? We have a plan, right?”

“I’m going to stabilize Marian to the best of my ability,” the healer said. The magic clutched in his palms began to warp and flash blue with undulating tendrils of light. “Hopefully the shock of moving her won’t kill her outright.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then you, me, and Carver will get her to the Circle. We’ll need to move fast and get her into the mage’s care as quickly as we can. It shouldn’t be too difficult, provided we don’t run into any Qunari still lurking around after the uprising.”

“Or Templars,” Carver pointed out. “Or rioters, Carta thugs, assassins, or apostates.”

Anders ignored him.

“What about us?” Varric asked, pointing between himself and Cullen.

“You two need to stay here,” the lanky mage explained, “and cut down as many of these rioters as you can. We need to ensure they don’t follow us into the tunnel.”

Cullen frowned and folded his arms. “That’s a suicide mission!”

“Not quite,” Varric said, rubbing at his chin. “Aveline is still on her way with reinforcements. Supposedly. We just need to hold our ground here and hope she swoops in to save us.”

Cullen glared at him now. “We two are supposed to fight off a mob? _Alone?_ How is that not a suicide mission?”

“Aww, Curly.” Varric shot the man a crooked grin. “You afraid of a little challenge? C’mon, Hawke and I have fought against worse odds.”

He glanced to Anders and his smile faded a little in favor of a darker look of determination.“We’ll cover your back,” he said. “Just get Hawke to the Circle alive. And no funny business once you’re there, yeah?”

Merrill knew he was referring to Justice and couldn’t fully broach the subject with Cullen present, but it seemed that Anders got the message just fine. The healer’s lips pursed in irritation, but he nodded.

“I’ll play nice with the knights,” he said. “Provided they keep their word.”

“Good,” Varric said. Then he took Cullen’s arm and led him off to a secluded corner. As the two departed, she heard Varric growl, “Now, Curly, did I ever tell you about the time Hawke and I fought off an entire gang of Wounded Coast thugs on our own? The tale might have some application here.”

“An entire gang? I find that hard to believe.”

“No shit!” Varric insisted. “So there we were, ass-backwards lost on the coast…”

Merrill left the two to their planning and returned to her earlier seat. Across from her, Anders was hurriedly packing his surgical equipment into a satchel with harsh, jerky movements. She watched him for a few moments. She drew in a short breath and…

“Thank you.”

He glanced up at her, then quickly away again. “For what?”

“For all of this. I know it isn’t an easy choice. A-and I know you hate the Circle. But thank you for focusing on Marian first.”

“I’m not happy about it,” he grunted.

“But that’s what makes it special,” Merrill said. “You could have refused. You could have—”

“I could have,” he interjected. “But… you reminded me that this isn’t just about what I want. _She_ comes first. And the others are right; Hawke’s only hope to survive her wounds is with the healers in the Circle Tower.”

He paused in his preparations, his shoulders hunching as a weary sigh wound its way from his throat. “I should actually be the one thanking you. I was… distracted before. Too focused on my own hatred. After everything that’s happened tonight, that’s the last thing we need. You helped me see that we need to stick together. So… thank you.”

She stared at the opened hand he offered her, then reached out and shook it with her much tinier elven one.

“Then let’s do this. Together.”

He nodded. “Together.”

It didn’t take long after that for them to prepare. Hawke was moved to a stretcher and carried between Anders and Merrill. Her skinny arms strained under the weight and her brows knotted with exertion, but she managed to lift the stretcher only barely. She wished she could use some magic to levitate the pallet, but that would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention, especially this deep in Darktown and given the present circumstances. Carver offered to take her place, but she stubbornly refused. Marian was her responsibility too, and she was tired of lingering at the woman’s side and simply hoping she’d get better. If there was something she could do, she’d do it. Besides, they would no doubt need Carver’s sword to defend them from the rampaging gangs roaming through Darktown — not to mention any Qunari that may still be lurking about.

So they were forced to lug Marian from the clinic with nothing but brute force. Varric held the door for them, throwing them each an encouraging smile and patting Merrill’s shoulder as she passed. She halted next to him for a moment, tears suddenly stinging her eyes with unexpected intensity.

“You’ll…” her voice trembled, then broke. “You’ll be right behind us, yes?”

Varric smiled. “Of course, Daisy. Tomorrow is Wicked Grace night at the Hanged Man. You really think I’d miss that?”

He giggled despite herself. “I guess not. Just be safe, Varric. And don’t die.”

He hefted Bianca over one shoulder with a roguish grin. “I’m not one to bow out before the end of the story, Daisy. You know me.”

Merrill bit her lip, then gestured for Carver to take the weight of the stretcher. The young Templar hopped in to relieve her and she used the temporary reprieve to throw her arms around Varric’s broad shoulders.

“Goodbye, Varric,” she said, hugging him tightly. Her voice shook with tears. “ _Dareth shiral._ And good luck.”

“Same to you, Merrill,” he said. A little of his ever-present charm seemed to ebb and his voice shook the tiniest bit. “We’ll all meet up at the Circle Tower come dawn. You’ll see.”

“Drinks are on me if you’re right,” she said as she pulled away. “That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? _Drinks are on me_?”

He laughed and ruffled her hair. “It is. And I’ll hold you to that promise.”

He stepped away and tucked Bianca against his shoulder. Behind him, Merrill could see a hatchet poking through the door with every recurring strike now. And the battering ram was now shaking the walls with its earth-shattering pounding. The doors were twisting in their frames and beginning to give way, blackening in several patches from grenade explosions and fire. They didn’t have long.

Varric followed her gaze and muttered a curse under his breath. He jerked his head to the hidden exit tunnel and growled, “You’d better get a move on, Daisy. Go and don’t look back.”

She took her place at the head of Marian’s stretcher once more. Then she followed her dwarven friend’s advice; she set off into the exit tunnel and she didn’t look back.Anders did, though. After they had descended some twenty feet into the tunnel, the healer called them to a halt and turned back. He took one last look at the bright rectangle of light that led out into his beloved clinic.

Then he gestured with a hand and caved in the ceiling, sealing off the hidden tunnel and throwing them into darkness.

~~~~~~~~

A month had passed since the fight in the stables and everything that happened after and things were most definitely looking brighter for Marian Hawke. She was still shackled to the must and stink of the stables, not to mention the muttering and glowering of Horsemaster Lewis. But now Brooke met her at the windmill every day and they spent the better part of the evening together there, talking and laughing and swapping tales of their respective days. Sometimes Brooke brought food for an impromptu picnic. Other times they went without food and made love under the shadow of the towering windmill by the stream.

Three months of perfect happiness, springing unexpectedly out of one of the worst times in Marian’s life. And now that she and Brooke had made their relationship more or less public, her other problems seemed to have melted into the wind as well. Jesley and his thugs gave her a wide berth now, still wary after the thrashing they had received in the stables, and her mother had ceased her endless attempts to set her up with one of the wealthy boys of the South Reach. She certainly wasn’t happy to learn her eldest daughter preferred the company of other women, but Malcolm Hawke had miraculously managed to impress upon his wife that Marian’s life was her own. Mother had backed down after that, putting on a half-sincere smile whenever the topic was raised and even treating Brooke with cool, measured politeness when in her company. Marian was grateful to her mother for trying at the very least.

One afternoon, Marian convinced Horsemaster Lewis with pleading words and a pouch full of silvers to allow her access to a pair of horses for the weekend. Together, she and Brooke took a short trip into the forest, to the foot of the Southron Hills a few hours from South Reach. The plan was to spend a few romantic days in the forest, camping and fishing and hunting together. But Brooke was far more excited at the prospect of potentially laying eyes on the Dalish clans that supposedly called the area home. The forest elves, she explained, didn’t usually drift far enough north to reach Starkhaven territory.

“I met some Dalish once, you know,” Marian said as they crossed over a small stream. Their horses’ hooves splashed in the ankle-deep water and the mounts tossed their heads in irritation. “Years ago now.”

Brooke was staring around at the sights of the forest with wonder. A small pond shimmered in the afternoon sun some distance to their left, marked by an equally small waterfall that fed both it and the stream. A pair of herons were striding through the shallows of the pond with long, graceful strides and a tiny cadre of deer were drinking on the other side. A single speckle-furred lookout watched the two women intently and wrinkled its velvety nose as they passed.

“Is this another famous Hawke tale from your youth?” Brooke asked, watching one of the herons ruffle its feathers and let out a long warbling, croaking call.

“I guess so,” Marian replied. “It was when we were leaving the forest for the towns again, just after the twins were born. We were intercepted on the road by a Dalish patrol.”

“What did you do? Did you have to fight?”

Hawke shook her head, feeling her hair tickle her cheeks as she did. She had decided to let it hang free and loose, spilling down over her shoulders the way Brooke liked it.

“No,” she said. “Though it definitely looked like one of them wanted to. Had a bow trained on us and everything.”

Brooke’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “What did they do?”

“They wanted us to leave their forest, of course! But Papa managed to talk them down and let us pass in return for trade. That satisfied the one.”

“What about the other?”

Marian paused. She hadn’t talked about her encounter with the elven mage in a long time. “She… was a different sort.”

Brooke cocked her head. “How so?”

“She wanted to talk to us. To me and the twins in particular.”

“That doesn’t sound too good. Don’t the Dalish eat children?”

Marian snorted. “I’m pretty sure that’s just tall talk. But to hear Mother tell the tale, that’s exactly what this woman wanted. She claims the elf woman was smacking her lips and looking over us like a witch out of some fairy tale.”

“You don’t sound so convinced.”

“I’m not. I didn’t sense anything sinister about the woman. She seemed… gentle. Kind. She gave us food for the road.”

“Probably trying to fatten you up for the feast.” Brooke’s eyes twinkled with humor and Marian laughed with her.

“Who knows? But she was never unkind to me. In fact…”

She trailed off, remembering Saidavel’s words when she had seen Marian’s scars.

 _You were clawed by the talons of_ Fen’harel _himelf,_ da’len, she had said. _Yet you escaped? The Creators certainly watch over you._

“She was the first one,” she said quietly. “The first one outside my family who saw what… what that wolf did to my face. And she didn’t think it was ugly. She actually said it was a blessing.”

“Is that so?” Brooke reached between the two horses and clasped Marian’s hand tightly. “I like these Dalish more and more.”

They fell silent as they came upon their destination: a small clearing some distance into the forest, just beyond the little stream. Papa had discovered it while working on a project for the mill and had suggested it would be a fine spot for a camp. Marian had taken the idea to heart and suggested they stay there for the night.

It was a fine spot indeed; the clearing was nestled between the mighty trees, sheltered from the elements under a thick canopy of interwoven branches that spilled scintillating rays of light down onto the forest floor below. The ground was carpeted in a soft layer of grass and fallen leaves and the quiet murmur of the stream could still be heard behind them. Birds chirped and cooed overhead, adding their tiny voices to the symphony of nature that surrounded them.Brooke stared around them with wide eyes and a hushed gasp of, “It’s beautiful!”

Marian dismounted, wrapping the reins of her borrowed horse around the sturdy branch of a nearby tree. Her scarred lips twitched upward in a smile as she gazed upon their shelter for the rest of the trip. “Enjoy it while you can,” she said. “The loggers will be in this area by this time next year. We may be the last ones to visit here.”

Brooke’s arms suddenly wrapped around her from behind, holding her close as the Free Marcher pressed a soft kiss to the side of her neck.

“Killjoy,” she murmured, her lips painting a smile against Marian’s skin.

“One of us has to be the realist,” the raven-haired woman countered with a smirk. “Life can’t all be sunshine and bunnies.”

“It can be for a few days at least,” Brooke said, giving her lover a squeeze. “Now come on. Let’s get the camp set up.”

As they set about pitching their shelter and gathering wood for the fire, Brooke returned to the subject of Marian’s encounter with the Dalish. Marian was a little surprised, thinking the conversation long since over.

“So this elven woman,” she said as they lugged their kit to the center of the clearing. “What else did she say?”

Marian pursed her lips. “Lots of things. She was a strange one.”

“How so?”

“She… prophesized. She said I would go on to be a great hero. That people would remember my name and that the scars were the first steps on the path to… what did she say? A _great and terrible destiny?_ ”

Brooke waggled her eyebrows at her. “Sounds ominous.”

Marian scoffed. “I’ll say. I’d have preferred if she said I would get in the good graces of the king and be given a monthly stipend of a hundred sovereigns.”

“Pshh. You aim too low. So long as we’re dreaming, why not go for the role of queen?”

Hawke pulled a face, the motion tugging and puckering her scar. “No thanks. I don’t know about you but I’m a simple girl. I don’t want a great destiny. And I _really_ don’t want a terrible one.”

Brooke got to work setting up the tent they would share. “You don’t believe her?”

“I don’t know. Would you?”

The other girl paused and sat back on her haunches. “I’m not sure. You think she knew something we don’t?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well…” Brooke laid out the tent and began hammering down the stakes that would anchor it into the soft forest floor. “Do you think maybe she _could_ see into the future? That she was…”

“A mage?”

The Starkhaven girl nodded and Marian felt a sudden drop in her stomach. She didn’t like talking about magic with Brooke. She didn’t even like talking about other people with abilities like they were now. It drifted too close to the truth she continued to hide from her lover, and that knowledge ate away at her every moment she spent dwelling on it.

 _She doesn’t know_ , that soft, weaseling voice hissed at her during such moments. _But she’ll find out sooner or later. Secrets like this_ always _come to light._

She quelled such fears now the same way she always did: she told herself to shut up and focus on more important things, like getting the shelter set up before a Dalish patrol stumbled upon their campsite and riddled them both with arrows.

 _That’s… not much better_ , the voice pointed out. She again told herself to shut up.

She instead distracted herself by gathering stones to ring their campfire. “Who knows? Maybe she was just strange. Dalish are all crazy if you believe the talk in town. You yourself said she probably just wanted to eat us and be done with it.”

“You know, Andraste denied her destiny too. Look where that got her.”

There was a note of teasing humor in Brooke’s voice, at which Marian threw the redhead a narrow-eyed glare. “So now you’re comparing me with Andraste? I may be your girlfriend, _sera_ , but I’m not _that_ special.”

Brooke chuckled and returned to her work. “Fair enough.”

They worked in silence for a few long minutes before Marian raised the courage to speak again. She bit her lip and glanced at Brooke’s back, debating whether to pursue the topic or let it rest. Probably smarter to let it rest. But then Marian had rarely opted for the smart road.

“What… what do you think?”

“Hmm? About what?”

“What the elf said? About my destiny?”

Brooke paused in her work, her hammer hovering over the stake she was driving into the ground. She pivoted and rested back with her legs crossed, staring at her lover with a cocked head and a thoughtful frown.

“Why do you ask?”

Marian turned back to her task, hiding a blush. “Papa said he believed what the elf told me. Just wondering if you’re crazy too.”

“Well I’ve put up with you this long, haven’t I? I _must_ be crazy.”

Hawke sighed and took a seat on the ground too. “I’m serious.”

“Why?” Brooke frowned and cocked her head. “Why would the words of one crazy elf almost a decade ago have you so worried?”

“It’s just…” Marian huffed, trying to find the perfect combination of truth and lies to get her point across without revealing her own complicity in the tale. “I never had what you’d call a _normal life._ And I can’t help but wonder if she was telling the truth.”

“If she was,” Brooke pointed out, “there’s nothing you can really do about it. Destiny is a bit of a bitch that way.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “I have to grant you that one. But—”

“Here’s what I think,” Brooke suddenly interrupted. She scooted closer, until their knees were touching. “I think you’re very special, Marian. I wouldn’t feel the way I do about you otherwise. You’re an incredible young woman.”

Marian blushed and looked down at her lap. She wasn’t looking for compliments or ego boosts.

“But,” the older girl continued, “I don’t think that means you’re destined to be some great hero, elven prophecy or no. To be a hero, you should kind of _want_ to do heroic things. Right?”

“You… have a point.”

“There you go,” Brooke said. “And you don’t _want_ to be a hero, right?”

“Of course not! If all the old tales are true, being a hero… well it’s a pretty terrible life.”

“Good,” the girl said. “Then it’s settled. The elf was wrong and you’re just a normal girl like the rest of us.”

Marian raised an eyebrow. “Normal?”

“Well…” Brooke said with a sly smile, “not to me of course. You’re _my_ hero at the very least.”

“Ugh, Brooke you should be ashamed of that!”

The smile grew wider. “I know, I’m sorry. How about a kiss to repent for my great sin?”

Marian returned the smile. “That sounds perfect.”

Brooke leaned closer and Marian closed her eyes with a smile, eager to feel the brush of lips against her own. She could just feel the first tickle of the Starkhaven girl’s breath, could feel the first trace of warmth from another body when—

“Caution would suggest that you keep your focus on more productive matters.”

Both girls cried out, leaped apart, and scrambled to their feet. Brooke grabbed her stake hammer while Marian hefted a rock the size of her fist, ready to throw at a moment’s notice. Both swiveled toward the sound of the voice, ready for a fight.

A man was striding toward them, out from the shelter of the trees. He was clad in polished black armor that shimmered in the rays of the sun that broke through the canopy, glittering and sparkling on the various iron studs set about his person. A dark cowl and cloak billowed around him in the gentle forest breeze and shrouded his face from the full light of the sun. He came to a halt some distance from them, but didn’t lower the sword resting casually over one shoulder.

“These forests,” the man said softly, his voice thick with a heavy Antivan accent, “can be a very dangerous place.”

“Who are you?” Brooke demanded, brandishing her hammer. Marian was just behind her, glaring at the hooded man with furious silver eyes. “What do you want?”

The man paused, as if considering his answer, then raised the yellowed sliver of bone clutched in his hand as if it explained everything.

“Hunting,” he said. “The Brecilian is rich with game. Boar is my particular favorite. The tusks fetch a fine price in the Denerim markets.”

Marian didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth. Something sinister in his aura pricked at her senses and made her magic flare up in a defensive tide. His voice was too soft, his stance too calm. He had been watching them for some time already, she knew, and now he wanted to do them harm.

She squeezed Brooke’s arm and hissed, “Don’t believe him. He’s lying.”

“Lying?” The man seemed to hear her, even from across the clearing. “My dear girl, what would I gain from lying to you?”

She glared out over Brooke’s shoulder and said, “Who hunts boar with a sword? Everyone knows you use a spear for that.”

The man’s hooded face half-turned toward the bloodied weapon over his shoulder, as if he had only just now remembered it. “The beast I sought was wily,” he said, “and very powerful. He shattered my spear when I first struck. I was forced to use my sword instead.”

“The game in these forests aren’t yours,” Brooke called with a frown. “They belong to Arl Bryland of South Reach.”

“I am well aware of the lands upon which I tread. I have the Arl’s permission to hunt beneath these trees. I have the necessary paperwork if you’d like to see.”

He took a step forward and Marian squeezed Brooke’s arm tighter.

“Don’t let him come closer. Something’s wrong.”

Brooke evidently agreed. She brandished her hammer – a comically small weapon compared to the man’s bloodstained sword – and said, “Stay where you are, _messere_. Don’t come any closer.”

“And why not?”

Her excuse sounded frail even to Marian’s ears. “This… is a private camping ground. _Our_ camping ground. You aren’t welcome.”

“Ah…” The man pointedly took another step closer. “But did you not just claim these were Bryland’s woods? You have no greater claim to them than I. And I very much doubt _you_ have the Arl’s permission to trespass here.”

The two girls glanced between themselves, knowing they had been outplayed. They _hadn’t_ gotten permission from the Arl to camp in the forest, knowing that he almost never left his estate and cared little for the goings-on in the town around him. If this man turned them in, they would be in very great trouble.

Brooke pursed her lips and looked back at the man with a scowl. “What do you want?”

He spread his hands placatingly. “A place to stay for the night, safe from the Dalish and the other denizens of this forest. I would be happy to share the spoils of my hunt, and you would be free to take plenty of prime cuts of meat to your families as payment for your hospitality.”

He took another step closer.

Hawke’s mana flared up again and she fought down the urge to summon twin fireballs in each hand to ward this black-armored man off. Something was indeed very wrong about him. He most certainly wanted something more, something worse, but she couldn’t tell just what.

Again, she pleaded with Brooke. “Send him away. _Please_.”

The other girl shook her head. “He’s right; we don’t have permission to be here. If he reports us, we’ll both spend a night in the stockades.”She glanced at Marian, then away with an abashed blush. “What can we do?”

“What can you do?” Again, the hooded man seemed to hear them even from the other side of the clearing. His voice was just as soft and calm as always, but now carried a note of smug triumph. He took yet another step closer.

Brooke sneered at him, but reluctantly tossed her hammer down next to their half-pitched tent. She folded her arms in defiance, though they both knew they could do nothing to send this black-armored man away now.

“Who are you?”

“As I said, I am a hunter.” The man reached up and pulled back his hood, letting it fall back over his shoulders to reveal a pale, flawless face framed by long locks of hair as midnight-black as Marian’s own. His face was all hard lines and sharp edges, as if the Maker Himself had carved the man from a block of marble. His hair fell in long curtains down each side of his chiseled face, coming to a halt just past his chest. He almost looked like Papa’s descriptions of vampires; pale, near-ethereal beings that possessed great magical powers and a hunger for blood and death.

But it was his eyes that chilled the most. They were a cold green and shone with an almost unnatural light, darting between the two women with a cold, apathetic detachment that sent a fresh wave of shivers through her already-trembling body.

 _The eyes of a viper_ , Hawke thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her gut. _The eyes of a predator._

The man bowed at the waist with a charming formality that belied his sinister air. He turned those cold viper’s eyes to the ground for a moment, then looked back up at them with a small smile on his thin, pale lips.

“My name is Lok,” he said. “And it is a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

~~~~~~~~

Night fell and the three unlikely campmates were gathered around the crackling embers of the fire. Brooke and Marian shared a thick wool blanket to keep out the cold, while Lok simply drew his long black cloak up around himself, shrouding himself in a cover as black as the night around him. They didn’t talk for a long time; they instead passed the hours by contemplating the clearing around them with razor-sharp focus or silently observing that clouds had covered the moon, cutting off the last ambient light available to them.

Marian hadn’t let go of Brooke’s hand since the black knight had appeared, but Lok didn’t seem remotely interested in the two. He shared the slain boar with them as promised, skinning and gutting the carcass by the campfire for a time and roasting large hunks of meat over the crackling flames. What was left he divided with a long, serrated knife of some shiny metal that was as black as the rest of his armor. It parted the tough meat like butter, and Hawke shuddered to think what other uses it could serve in the man’s dexterous hands.

When someone finally spoke, it was unexpectedly Marian’s voice that broke the silence.

“Your armor,” she said, looking the man up and down from her place huddled across the fire from him. “It isn’t like any hunters’ armor I’ve seen before.”

“Boar are dangerous beasts,” Lok replied. His tone was almost casual as he scooped up a long string of greenish-black intestines and hucked them into the grass, away from their camp. “Especially the boars of this forest. I’ve seen their tusks sink through three inches of plate steel.”

“And the sword?”

“A… precautionary measure. Against beasts more dangerous than boar.”

“Elves?”

“Men.”

Brooke pulled her half of the blanket tighter around herself. “So… you’re a killer?”

“When the situation calls for it.”

“A bounty hunter, then?”

“On occasion.”

The Starkhaven girl huffed in irritation at their guest’s repetitively vague answers. She glanced at Marian, rolled her eyes, and drew her finger in circles near her temple, miming that the man was crazy. Lok, thankfully, seemed too engrossed in butchering his kill to pay attention. He ripped that wicked-looking serrated blade down, carving off a fat hunk of meat, and slapped it on a rock near the fire for later gathering.

“If you’re going to be staying here,” Marian ventured, “we should know more about you. After all, why should we trust a strange man wandering out in the woods, armed and armored for battle?”

A strange kind of humor seemed to twinkle in Lok’s dead-looking green eyes. A smirk pulled at his thin lips before he turned back to the boar and his features were lost in tha shadow. For a moment, Marian thought he had ignored her, but he eventually spoke.

“I was born in Antiva,” he said, “far north of here, on the shores of the endless blue sea. For a time I tried my hand at sailing upon it, but soon found it, ah… not to my liking. After some troublemaking, I fell in with a band of _mercenarios_ and made my way south, to the so-called _Doglands_ of Ferelden.”

 _A mercenary?_ Marian thought. _I’m liking this less and less. And that_ Doglands _crack was just mean._

He continued, “I settled down — more or less — outside Denerim. Found a woman, had a child. Things were simple.”

“I’m sensing an abrupt change coming,” Brooke said. She took one of the spitted hunks of boar meat, sniffed it, then returned it to the fire to cook for a few minutes more. Now that their mysterious guest was finally revealing more about himself, she seemed to be relaxing quite considerably. “You wouldn’t be here if you had a nice _happily-ever-after_ life.”

Marian herself couldn’t be further from _relaxed_. Her silvery eyes were fixed on Lok and she was unwilling to look away for even a moment, as if the slightest oversight would give him an opportunity to turn that serrated black blade on her and her lover. But Lok wasn’t looking at them; he seemed fixated on the boar, at least for the moment, and that was a small blessing for which she was very grateful.

“An abrupt change did come,” he said, tearing another hunk of meat free and tossing it onto the heated rocks by the fire. “Quite… abrupt.”

“What happened?”

“Apostates. Blood mages.” Lok spat into the grass next to him. “They came into the house one night, fleeing the Templars set after them. They pleaded for help, begged my family to hide them.”

Marian, knowing full well how foolish it was to ask, still felt compelled to inquire, “Did you?”

“Of course not. The Templars would have put us to the torch along with the blood mages had they found out.” Lok glanced at her for a moment and Marian instantly regretted her question. He held her fearful gaze for a few long moments, until Marian was almost convinced he knew exactly who and what she truly was.

“Templars,” he said, “always hunt down their quarry, sooner or later.”

The two women fell silent as they digested his words, each in her own way. Marian felt a cold chill fill her at Lok’s unknowing threat. This man didn’t look like a Templar himself — his armor was too dark and he bore no seal of the Chantry’s authority upon his person — but he was certainly every bit as dangerous as the armored knights she so feared.

“When I refused them,” Lok continued, “the apostates grew… cross. They used their powers to summon demons and other abominations to hold my family captive. As a bargaining chip to buy their freedom.”

He paused in his butchery for a moment, resting his hands on his knees as a faraway look came into his eyes. He stared off into the darkness, unmoving. In the dim light of the campfire, he looked almost like a specter himself.

“But as is so often the case,” he murmured, “they trifled with powers beyond their ability to control.”

Brooke cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“One of the apostates lost control. Summoned a trio of rage demons.” Lok’s pale green eyes roamed through the darkness, as if he could see the horrid spectacle playing out in front of him. “They killed him almost instantly. Then the monsters turned their attention to my family.”

The serrated knife suddenly plunged back into the boar with unexpected vigor and a spray of blood spattered his arms. “They killed without mercy. Burned my wife and child alive before my eyes, laughing over my loved ones’ screams.”

Brooke’s hand drifted up to her mouth. “That’s horrible. Were they caught? The apostates, I mean.”

Lok shook his head and his long black locks swayed in the gentle night breeze. “The two who survived the demon attack fled into the night. When the Templars arrived, they found only demons, corpses… and me.”

“I’m… so sorry. It must have been horrible.”

Lok sniffed and said nothing more. For a time, all that could be heard was the sharp scrape of his blade against the boar’s flesh. Marian continued to watch him go about his bloody work, her stomach grumbling loudly as the thick, mouth-watering scent of roasting meat wafted over her. Brooke obviously felt a similar hunger, as she snatched up a piece of meat from the fire, now fully cooked, and dug in with gusto.

“So now you know my tale,” the pale man grunted as he worked, “it is only fair that you return the courtesy. What drives you two to venture so far into the Arl’s woods uninvited?”

“We…” Brooke offered some of her meal to Marian, who grudgingly took it. “We were going camping.”

“Oh?” The black-armored man didn’t look up. “You must be brave indeed to willingly camp in Dalish territory.”

Marian couldn’t help but respond, even with a mouth full of roasted boar. “There aren’t any Dalish here.”

“No?” Lok smirked at them and gestured to the clearing with his knife. “This glade was not long ago home to an aravel caravan. They moved on one, maybe two weeks ago. Their scouts still patrol the area.”

He turned back to the carcass. “In fact,” he said, a sneer in his voice, “I spotted at least three of their scouts watching us already.”

Brooke instantly stiffened and looked around, clutching tighter to Hawke’s hand. Hawke also tensed, but for slightly different reason. If the Dalish were here, why hadn’t they attacked? What if they were friendly, like Saidavel had been so long ago? Perhaps they would drive their sinister guest away, back into the shadows of the trees from which he had first come.

But Lok snickered at them again. “It’s futile to try and see them. If the Dalish wish to remain hidden, the most attentive seeker in Thedas would be unable to find them. You must simply rest assured they are out there and they are watching.”

Marian felt Brooke shudder next to her. She made sure to draw the blanket tighter around them. Then she frowned and said, “If you were really hunting boar, why did you decide to stop to talk to us? Why not take our kill and move on?”

The serrated knife froze. Lok himself froze, like a fox caught in the chicken coop mid-theft. Those cold green eyes darted to her and seemed to stare right through her for a few impossibly long moments. Marian felt as if her entire body had been plunged into ice water.

Then the black armored man sighed and rested back on his haunches, leaving the wicked-looking blade still embedded in the carcass. He stared at the two young women with a narrow-eyed glare, then sniffed and said, “You caught me. I wasn’t just here to hunt boar.”

 _I knew it!_ she thought. “If you’re not here for the boar, what are you really doing here?”

“I’m hunting far more dangerous prey. I have been for some time.” Lok reached up to his collar and pulled a medallion into the light. The flickering illumination of the flames lighted across its surface, making the symbol etched upon it all but glow in the night. It was an eye, displayed proudly amid waving tendrils of flame.

Marian almost screamed at the sight. She managed to hold back her horror, thank Andraste, but was sure she paled a few shades regardless.

“You know,” the black-armored man asked, “what this symbol is? What it means?”

“You’re…” her voice faltered a little. “You’re a Seeker. A mage-hunter.”

Against her better judgment, she looked up and met those dead green eyes. Her heart seemed to have been gripped by an uncomfortably tight vise, and the roasted meat now felt thick and heavy in her gut. She fought back the sudden wash of terror-nausea and did her best to put on a casual face.

“Those Templars who found you,” she said, “didn’t just kill the demons and move on.”

“No.”

“They took you in? Trained you to be one of them?”

“Yes.” That strange, cold humor flashed in Lok’s gaze again. His voice was a raspy purr.

Brooke spoke up now, apparently oblivious to the tension that had fallen over their group. She tore at the hunk of meat with her teeth and said, “If you’re hunting mages, you’ve chosen the wrong town to start. South Reach doesn’t exactly have a reputation for hiding apostates.”

Lok smiled from across the fire — a cold, ugly smile that pressed his thin lips into a tight white line — and Marian’s heart fluttered. She cursed herself for being so flighty and thought, _Papa taught you better than this. You’ve outwitted more sinister characters than this man._

But she knew that wasn’t true. She could flit under the radar of the average Templar by keeping her magic under control and acting like an average young woman. But Seekers… they were different. They were only sent after the most elusive, most dangerous targets. Targets like…

_Papa!_

Her heart somersaulted again even as a cold stone of certainty sank into the pit of her stomach. It was the only explanation. Malcolm Hawke had long ago escaped the confines of the Mage’s Circle and had been on the run ever since, eluding every attempt to recapture him and often killing those who tried. Of course the Chantry would send someone uniquely qualified to oppose such a powerful threat.

 _He’s after my father_ , she thought, thinking slowly and carefully to ensure the mental words carried the appropriate weight. _And he won’t stop there. He’ll kill me, the twins, and probably Mother and Brooke for good measure_.

Lok had turned back to the boar. He successfully managed to sever the head and set the hefty piece of meat aside, no doubt to save as a trophy for later. As he worked, he spoke again in a calm, almost casual tone. But his words had the exact opposite effect on Marian.

“That scar on your face,” he said with that same smug purr as before. “It is strange for a girl your age to bear such battle wounds. Who dealt you such a disfiguring blow?”

Marian’s voice knotted somewhere between her collar and her lips, sticking fast in her throat and refusing to budge. Thankfully, Brooke — still oblivious to the danger they were now in — answered for her.

“A wolf attacked her when she was little,” the redhead said through a mouthful of food. She gulped loudly and continued, “Marian’s family moved around a lot when she was younger, and the roads are dangerous.”

“They are indeed,” the Seeker agreed. He was still smiling that ugly smile. “They are indeed.”

Marian fidgeted in her seat, then gently removed herself from the shelter of the blanket and stood from her seat by the fire.

“I’m going to sleep,” she said, doing a superb job of masking her nauseating anxiety behind a facade of weariness. “All this talk of wolves and Templars and apostates has stolen my appetite.”

Brooke squeezed her hand as she left, wished her sweet dreams, and said she would join her soon. But as Marian settled into her bedroll for what was sure to be an uncomfortable night, she heard Lok’s murmured voice from the fire once more and shuddered at the deceptively gentle sound.

Brooke and the Seeker spoke for maybe an hour more, their quiet voices little more than distant murmuring. Marian felt her heart sinking further with every muted word passed between them. Did Lok know what Hawke really was? Was he telling Brooke now? What about now?

Sleep didn’t truly come until Brooke finally entered their shared tent and slipped into the bedroll next to Hawke. She wrapped her arms around Marian’s waist and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck before snuggling close and relaxing as the gentle arms of slumber spirited her away to the Fade for the night.

 _So he didn’t tell her_ , she thought with some small measure of relief. She rested her hands over Brooke’s smaller, softer ones, unmarred by the scars and callouses of hard labor, and let out a sigh. Still, she didn’t follow the other woman to sleep for a long time. She remained awake, listening to the muffled scrape of Lok’s serrated black knife as it plunged again and again into the side of the slaughtered boar. The sound seemed to sink into her, down to her very bones.

When she did eventually drift off to sleep, she dreamed of a wolf, hulking and bristling with black fur as dark as midnight. A wolf with green viper’s eyes.

 


	9. Cornered

After Blondie’s secret tunnel caved in and sealed the last viable exit from the clinic, Varric sighed and headed over to Cullen’s position. The tall knight was sitting on a crate and running a whetstone along his sword’s edge The stone made a dull scraping sound as it dragged down the sharpened blade, almost lost amid the clamor outside. Cullen’s gaze seemed fixed on the sword, unnaturally calm given what was about to happen.

“You good, Curly?” the dwarf inquired. He racked back the loading mechanism of his crossbow, feeding a bolt into the weapon before setting it aside for the moment. “Ready for this dance?”

The Templar nodded, but didn’t look up from his blade. Sparks flew as he ground the whetstone against the razor edge. He held it up to his eyes, inspected the edge, then returned to his ministrations. When he spoke his voice was low and soft, as if he wasn’t really speaking to Varric at all.

“Eyes sorrow-blinded, in darkness unbroken,” he murmured. “There ‘pon the mountain, a voice answered my call. _You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr, that within My creation, none are alone_.”

Varric raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a verse from the Chant of Light,” Cullen explained. “When the Maker revealed Himself to Andraste, who lamented for the suffering and pain of her people. In her hour of need, He delivered her and her people from destruction.”

Varric was indeed familiar with the verse, but he didn’t feel the need or desire to point this out. Instead, he frowned and said, “You really think it’s time to start praying? I didn’t think things were _that_ bad.”

“It… seemed fitting, considering what we’re about to face.” He paused in his care for his sword, then tossed the whetstone in to the dirt with a quiet curse. The sword now rested across his lap as its owner stared off at some point over Varric’s shoulder.

“We’re both going to die in here.”

Varric sighed and hopped up to take a seat next to the Templar Knight Captain. “You think so?”

“I’m no novice with a blade and shield, but we’re woefully outnumbered. It’s almost a certainty.”

The dwarf cleared his throat, listening to the pounding against the door. If the shouts and screams were any indication, the crowd outside had almost doubled since the violence had started, no doubt bolstered by other Darktown natives drawn to the promise of murder and looting like moths to flickering candle flame.

“You, uh… you afraid?”

Cullen planted the tip of his sword in the dirt between his boots. “I am a Knight Captain of the Templar Order. I made my peace long ago and face my fate with head raised high. It is my duty.”

“Right, right. I get the whole chivalric code and everything. But what about underneath all that?”

The Knight Captain of the Templar Order seemed to deflate a little. “The truth? I’m terrified. I don’t want to die.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I, uh… I’m scared too. I know I put on a brave face for the others, but…” He swung his feet, which didn’t touch the ground from his perch on the crate. “I’d rather not die, you know?”

They sat in silence for a bit, listening as the door splintered inward. Chunks were now flying from its surface, letting in the clamor and noise of the mob outside. Someone managed to chuck a fire grenade through one of the gaps in the door and it shattered against the ground, spreading a pool of brilliant flames across the sandy floor. They quickly died away with a hiss, as the clinic’s occupants had piled virtually every source of potential fuel against the door as part of their barrier.

It wouldn’t be long now.

“You mind if I ask you a question, Curly?”

“Normally I’d say I would mind. But it seems somewhat pointless now.”

The dwarf pondered for a few moments, then pursed his lips and said, “Why did you decide to stay? To defend Hawke, I mean. You could have easily joined your buddies outside in the crowd.”

A dark look crossed Cullen’s chiseled face, pulling his handsome features into a scowl. “The thought crossed my mind, if I’m being brutally honest. I have no love for mages, as you’ve probably guessed.”

“Something to do with the Ferelden Tower?” When Cullen looked at him sharply, Varric just shrugged and said, “No offense intended. Just something I overheard.”

“Well… yes. I’ve seen firsthand how destructive their powers can be.” Cullen sniffed and flexed his hands around the hilt of his sword. “But tonight, for the first time, I saw the exact inverse. I watched as Marian Hawke engaged the Arishok alone to defend this city. I watched her hurl lightning bolts and fireballs, watched her fight and flail and almost die all to safeguard the innocent. Not unlike a Templar.”

He glanced at Varric. “I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what she did, Varric. Even the Knight Commander would likely have fallen if placed in the same dire situation. But Hawke not only stood her ground but emerged _victorious_.”

Another grenade exploded against the ground, to cheers from the crowd outside. Cullen watched the flames lick across the sandy floor for a few long moments before it died away into nothingness.

“She wasn’t acting to defend herself,” he said. “She wasn’t looking for greater power through blood magic. She wasn’t even fighting to secure some great boon to ensure her freedom. She was defending the people of Kirkwall, to the death if necessary, simply because it was the right thing to do.”

“And that made it special for you? Made it mean something?”

“It meant _everything_. I wouldn’t be sitting here if not for her. Neither would you or your friends or even the crowd outside. We all owe our lives to her.”

An icy look frosted over his gaze and he scowled at the splintered door, now almost knocked clean off its hinges. They could see hands gripping the ragged edges of the various holes blasted in its surface, doing their best to push it inward. Those rare places where the groping hands were absent, spears and sticks and sword blades were shoved through in a vain attempt to stab at something — anything — that lurked within.

“I figure,” the Knight Captain said, “that this is the very least I can do to repay the great debt I now owe.”

He hefted his sword into both hands and stood from his seat. Varric wasn’t far behind, heart thumping uncomfortably hard in his chest.

“In her,” Cullen continued, “I see the potential salvation of this city. And if my death can ensure she lives to do what I can’t, that is a price I am willing to pay.” He glanced down at his unlikely companion. “What about you? Why are you still here?”

Varric chuckled and shrugged. “Hawke is my best friend. Where else would I be?”

A strange look came into Cullen’s eyes. “She is truly blessed by your loyalty. Would that we all had a companion such as you to rely upon.”

Varric snorted. “Mind telling her that when she wakes up?”

“It’s a deal.” The tall human cracked a rare smile. “But only if you manage to cut down more than I do.”

“You’re on, Curly.”

_CRACK!_

The entire doorway seemed to shudder in its frame. The door bent inward with a great groan of stretching, tortured wood. The two defenders took a few cautious steps back. Varric hoisted his beloved Bianca up to a firing position, tight against his shoulder. Cullen raised his sword and kissed the flat side of the blade, blessing it for the battle to come.

“Let the blade pass through the flesh,” he murmured, quoting from the Chant of Light once more. “Let my blood touch the ground. Let my cries touch their hearts.”

Varric grimaced and, despite his best efforts to curtail his tongue, finished the passage.

“Let mine be the last sacrifice.”

There was a deep, almost thunderous groan from the other side of the door as the battering ram was pulled back for a final, cataclysmic strike. Varric found himself screwing his eyes up in preparation of the inevitable explosion and the destruction that would follow. He was not disappointed.

_CRA-CRASH!_

The door was blown clean off its great iron hinges, smashing down with a resounding clatter and a billowing cloud of dust and ash from the flame-scorched ground. The cloud swarmed through the room, shrouding all in a blanket of beige. Pounding footsteps of invading rioters quickly followed and the clinic was suddenly filled with bodies.

The two defenders, alone against the horde, charged forward with weapons held high. They cried out, and then were lost in the chaos.

“For Kirkwall!”

“For Hawke!”

~~~~~~~~

Marian saddled the horse for travel early the next morning. She let Brooke sleep, slipping out from their shared tent before the sun first kissed the horizon. Her first job, of course, was keeping an eye out for Lok. The man had stayed in their camp late into the night, butchering his prize from his hunt the day before. Marian had heard the scraping of that sinister-looking knife for hours after the two girls had turned in for sleep.

The kill was still there, the meat neatly stripped from the bone with a precision only a lifelong predator could hope to achieve. So was the man’s horse: a jet-black steed that stood strong and silent on the edge of the forest clearing. The boar’s head, however, was conspicuously absent. So was the man who had taken it.

Such a disappearance should have been comforting. Just last night she had wished with all her powers of fantasy that he would vanish from sight and leave the campers alone. But now that her wish had been granted, the lack of the green-eyed man left her cold and anxious in a way even Brooke’s warmth could not soothe.

She needed to leave quickly, get back to town, and warn her family. Brooke would be fine; the Free Marcher girl was not inexperienced with woodland travel on her own, and once Marian was gone Lok would have no reason to continue skulking around. If he was truly hunting the Hawke’s, he’d most likely follow Marian like a wolf after a rabbit.

The horse shook its head and whinnied as she saddled it, earning itself a harsh shushing from its soon-to-be rider. Marian slung her travel pack over its haunches, followed closely by her canteen and a small sling of supplies for the road. She also packed a not so small bundle of boar meat. It had been a “gift” from Lok, sure, but she wasn’t going to pass up gifts freely given. Besides, her family needed the meat.

“You never struck me as the _sneak-out-in-the-morning_ type of girl.”

Marian sighed, knowing the game was up. The horse’s whinnying had clearly given her away. She slowly turned, wringing her lucky red handkerchief as she did.

“You caught me,” she said with a wry smile. “My plan all along was to ditch you out in the woods where no one but the elves could find you.”

Brooke didn’t smile back. She had wrapped herself in the rough wool blanket they had shared the night before. Her auburn hair was loose and wild from sleep, falling down her shoulders in a messy cascade of reddish-brown.

“What are you doing out here, Marian?”

“I’m… heading back to South Reach. You’re more than welcome to join me if you like.”

Brooke frowned. “Is this about that Seeker? I know you didn’t like him, but—”

Marian wrenched the handkerchief tight. “He’s _dangerous_ , Brooke. Don’t ask me how I know, but I don’t trust him out here alone with us. With _you_.” She took a step closer, chewing at her lip. “We need to get out of here before he comes back. I need you to trust me on this.”

For a long moment, she thought Brooke would refuse. She could see the young woman wanted to. She could see uncertainty in her face, in her eyes, in the way she shifted her weight. She wanted to ask questions, wanted to _demand_ answers for her strange behavior. Marian knew if she did, there would be no good way to lie her way free. But then the Free Marcher surprised Marian.

“Okay.”

Hawke blinked. “Okay?”

“Okay. Help me tear down the tent and saddle my horse and we’ll be on our way.”

For a moment she was too stunned for words. She’d been sure Brooke would at least ask her why she was so determined to leave. But the redhead just nodded and turned away to pack up. She didn’t get far before Marian called her back.

“Brooke?”

“Hmm?”

One last twist of the handkerchief. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Brooke stepped back and enfolded Marian in a gentle kiss. She leaned back, arms resting on her lover’s shoulders and shot her a radiant smile.

“Like I was really going to let you drop me in the middle of the forest? You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. Now let’s get moving before our knight in shining armor gets back.”

~~~~~~~~

Marian dropped Brooke off at her home on the outskirts of South Reach. She leaned down in the saddle and gave the redhead a quick peck on the cheek before handing her part of the boar Lok had given them.

“Stay safe,” she said. “Our mutual friend may not be done with us.”

Brooke smirked as she tucked the package under her arm. “I think you worry too much.”

_And I think I don’t worry enough._

She didn’t have the nerve to say it out loud. So instead, she wheeled her horse around and led it and Brooke’s now-vacant steed back into the city. She glanced over her shoulder only once, to wave goodbye. The Starkhaven girl was already gone.

Her heart was racing already. She had to get back home, had to warn Papa before something terrible happened. She needed to ditch the horses back at the stables, move light and fast. If Lok had warned the local Templar forces…

It took too long to reach the stables, and far too long to get on the road again after dropping them off. She moved like a ghost through the streets of South Reach, feeling as if the village had suddenly swelled to a metropolis after only a day. Every footfall ticked away the precious seconds left before the end finally came for her, for Malcolm, and for their entire family.

She didn’t know what would happen when she told her father. Most likely, they would leave. It was almost a familiar routine by now: the Templars would get too close for comfort and the entire Hawke clan would pull up stakes and vanish into the wind. In the past, Marian would simply go along with the chaos, let it tug her to and fro regardless of the final destination.

But it wouldn’t be so easy this time. This time they had things holding them here. This time, Brooke was involved. And Brooke would not so easily be tossed aside like all the people from all the villages in the past. Brooke was worth staying for. Brooke was worth _fighting_ for.

Papa had taught her that, seemingly a lifetime ago: if something was worth having, then it was worth defending. And what Marian had here in South Reach, her life with Brooke in this dirt-poor village, was worth defending. The girl was family now, as sure as Mother or Papa or the twins were family. And if Lok tried to take that life from her, tried take that _family_ from her, then he would learn just how willing Marian was to fight for what she had.

At last, the ramshackle little Hawke cottage came into sight around a bend in the street. The windows were dark and no smoke rose from the chimney, but that was unsurprising. Papa was at work, the twins were attending classes at the Chantry, and Mother was most likely off with one of her friends and chewing over the latest town gossip.

That was good. It would give her time to think, time to come up with an explanation that wouldn’t send her parents into flight mode. If they could somehow get Lok to move on from South Reach, if they could distract or even eliminate him…

First thing first: she needed a staff. Mages could summon magic without one, but it was much easier when aided by a scepter crowned with a lyrium crystal. Marian didn’t have one of her own, but she knew Papa kept his old staff from his days in the Kirkwall Circle hidden away from even the most prying eyes. Like the household sword kept out of the reach of the twins, it was meant as a last defense. And Marian knew where it was kept, under the loose floorboard in the kitchen, in the space between the floor and the ground where only spiders and other unsavory creatures crawled.

She threw once last glance over her shoulder before stepping through the front door. The street was clear of travelers and potentially unfriendly eyes. She had made it home safe and sound. The _thud_ of the closing door cooled her anxiety the slightest bit. Distance had been placed between her and the source of her fears, separated by a thick barrier of hardwood. Now onto more important—

“Would you like to hear a story?”

A weaker woman would have screamed. Marian was not a weak woman, but the urge still seized her gut and crawled its way up into her throat before she could tamp it down.

Seeker Lok was sitting in the kitchen, leaned back in his chair with one boot up on the edge of the dinner table. The studs of his jet-black armor winked in the dim light, the heavy plates creaking with a soft, sinister scrape in time with his breath. A fresh-cooked platter of roast meat was sitting in his lap, the fork in his hand. He was staring at the hunk of roast speared there with a strange, predatory look in his green eyes.

“I like hunting boar,” he said. “They are admirable prey. Not as elegant as a deer. Not as beautiful as a trophy elk. Not as intelligent as a wolf. But unlike all the others, boar are _strong_. All grit and muscle”

“What are you doing here?”

He turned the fork and ignored her. “Even struck with tenfold arrows and speared through the gut, they will continue fighting. Like the wild, rabid beast they are, they will fight and fight and fight until you beat the fight out of them. If you do not, they will pursue you for miles until they run you down and gore you to death with their fearsome tusks.”

He sighed wistfully, twisting the fork between his gloved fingers. “There are no half-measures with boar: only complete victory or total failure. I like that. It makes the hunt so very… invigorating.”

Marian moved to flee. She reached for the doorknob and her fingertips just brushed against its surface when Lok shifted and brought his other hand into view. Unlike the hand gently grasping the fork, this one held a loaded miniature crossbow.

“Not so fast,” the black-haired man purred. “I am not finished with my story. Hands off the door, please.”

Marian didn’t move. Lok shook the bow for effect and made a dramatic effort of placing his finger on its trigger. Something very unpleasant glinted in his cold green eyes.

“Hands off the door,” he insisted. “Please.”

Marian did as she was told. Lok smiled his ugly smile. Then he gestured to the seat across from him. His gesture was exaggerated, overblown, like a mime pantomiming a seat at an elegant dinner party. His voice, however, was harsh and cold as a shard of ice.

“Sit.”

Again, Marian did as she was told. Again, the Seeker smiled. The crossbow lowered back to his side. He turned his attention back to the roast in front of him, leaving his new captive shivering and helpless and trapped within her own home.

“I hunted boar for years,” he continued. “But after a time, I grew bored of the unpredictability of it all. They always fought with such fervor, you see, so the whole measure grew… unsatisfying. It became an irritation and a waste of valuable time rather than a pleasant distraction. The beasts simply didn’t know when to lay down and die.”

“So I found an alternative.” A smirk curled his thin, pale lips. “Rather than face the creature face-to-face in an honorable duel, I instead tracked it back to its lair. To the one place where it dropped its guard. Where it did not expect to be threatened. And then…”

His smile grew wider, until it almost looked like it would dissect his face. His lips peeled back from perfect white teeth before he popped the hunk of roast into his mouth and chewed, again with exaggerated effect.

Marian’s eyes never left his face, and a furious scowl never left hers. After a few long moments he met her murderous gaze and feigned a look of sheepish surprise.

“I do apologize, my dear,” he said. He picked up the platter and held it out to her. “Would you like some?”

She slapped the plate away, out of his grasp. The dish shattered and tossed tiny cubes of roast across the floor. Lok looked at the mess with a frown on his gaunt face.

“A shame.” He sounded genuinely disappointed. “It was quite a good cut.”

Marian’s hands were clenched into fists. “What do you want?”

“I think you know.”

“It’s not going to happen. You won’t take me alive.”

He settled back with his hands folded over his belt buckle. “You flatter yourself. I’m not here for you.”

“But you _are_ here for my father?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t let you take him either.”

“Your father,” Lok’s head listed off to one side, a bored tone entering his voice, “is a liar, a thief, and a murderer. I’d be doing this shithole of a village a favor by taking him away.”

“He’s a good man.”

“How many men has he killed since escaping the Circle? Hmm?” Lok pointed the fork at her. “Was he a _good man_ when he blasted apart the soldier who gave you that scar?”

His hideous smile returned at the sight of her shocked expression. It was the leer of a man who was savoring every moment of his apparent victory. “Oh yes, my dear. I know all about your little mishap in the Brecilian all those years ago. I know what happened to you, and I know what happened to the Templar pursuing you.”

“He was trying to _kill_ me!”

“He was trying to _apprehend_ you,” the Seeker corrected. “For breaking the law. As Templars do with all criminals.”

“And what was my crime?” Marian’s fists were squeezed so tight on the tabletop that her knuckles were turning white. “Hmm? Being born?”

“Yes.” The blunt answer surprised her. “Mages are not allowed to have children. And they are most _definitely_ not allowed to have children while on the run from the institution that keeps them safe.”

Marian spat. “I’ve heard of your _safety_. You cage people like me because you fear us. You keep us on a leash for all our lives simply because we control something you don’t understand.”

She leaned closer to the armored man, against her better judgment. “And when we dare speak up, when we have the _gall_ to think we actually deserve something better than imprisonment, you Tranquilize us. You strap us down and rip away all our emotions, severing everything that could make us resent what you do.”

“Strong words,” Lok said with a raised eyebrow, “from a girl who has known nothing but a life of freedom.”

Again, Marian found herself disarmed by his response. While she digested his reply, Lok tapped the fork against his chin thoughtfully. He narrowed his eyes at the girl in front of him before settling back in his seat, one boot still resting on the edge of the table.

“Would you like to hear a story?” he repeated.

Marian didn’t answer. Lok didn’t wait for one.

“Years ago,” he began, “I was serving as a Templar guard in Kirkwall. You know of this city, yes?”

“Yes.”

“It was my duty to ensure all the mages were kept safe and secure within the Circle Tower. I was to escort them to classes, to meals, make sure none stepped out of place and none escaped.”

“Sounds a lot like a prison to me.”

Lok ignored her. “Most of the mages were decent enough. Kind. Intelligent. At peace with their fate. But there was one individual who caught the attention of the guards. His name was Alphius.”

Marian scowled. “Is that name supposed to mean something?”

“Of course not. He died long before you were even a sparkle in your father’s silver gaze.” Lok rolled his eyes and continued his tale. “Alphius was always a weak man. Slim of build. Watery eyes. Almost always ill with something or another. A true rat of a man. But it didn’t take long for the guards to realize it was not just clogged sinuses or sore throats that plagued Alphius. He was prey to a far more sinister illness. An illness of the mind and soul. A demon.”

Marian narrowed her eyes.

“Our most skilled exorcists attempted to make contact with this entity, this _creature_ attempting to force its way into Alphius. None were successful. We could sense it was there, but it remained hidden and elusive. And Alphius was suffering for it. He grew thinner and more sickly by the day. His skin turned pasty and lined with the wrinkles of a far older man. His eyes sunk deep into his head and his teeth began falling out. He was in a very great deal of pain, but there was quite simply nothing we could do to help him.”

He shifted, his armor’s embossed plates scraping together as he raised a hand to his eyes and inspected his fingernails with that same bored nonchalance. “Until one day, when all the Circle students were gathered for afternoon meal, Alphius suddenly stopped in the middle of the commissary. He just… froze, as if turned to marble. Templars were dispatched to ascertain the meaning of this interruption.

“He looked at them…” Lok’s green eyes had taken on a faraway look as he lost himself in the memory. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “…and he _smiled._ ”

He tilted his head and met Marian’s gaze. She hadn’t realized she’d been listening to the Seeker’s tale with undivided attention and scolded herself for being so easily distracted.

“The next minute,” he said, “all descended into chaos. The Templars and several nearby acolytes were vaporized by a magical explosion. The blast tore through the hall’s magical defenses and within moments the demons arrived; crawling through the cracks in the walls, up through pools of magma in the floor. They tore into student and soldier alike, staining every surface with blood. Many unlucky mages were possessed within moments, naught more than playthings for their new masters. Alphius himself was under the thrall of the worst demon of the lot. He charged at the nearest Templar and ripped his head from his shoulders with bare hands. He then punched a hole through another’s chest, armor and all.

“It continued in this manner for some time. An hour, perhaps two. Alphius fled into other parts of the tower and destruction followed wherever he went.” Lok shook his head. “And through it all, Alphius was still smiling that devilish smile. As if he had just made the greatest joke ever heard by mortal ears.”

Marian scowled at the man, but still felt compelled to say, “W-what happened?”

“One brave soul, an acolyte of the Circle, hit Alphius over the head with her staff. Hit him so hard the stick snapped in two and fractured the boy’s skull. The maelstrom stopped. The demons vanished. When he awoke again, it took four hours for poor Alphius to stop screaming at the sheer horror of what he had done.”

He shrugged. “It was only later, of course, that we found the preparations he had made. The salt lines, the chalk runes, the carvings hidden beneath tables. All put in place to dismantle our magical defenses and let the demons in. And then there were the secret journals. Alphius had been the recipient of nightmares for _years_. He knew a fear demon had set its sights on his mind. His journals were full of terrified ramblings about this demon, which he called Dread. It worked through him, forced him to make those runes and carvings, but never allowed him to speak of its presence.”

“And what about Alphius?”

“He was Tranquilized, of course. It was the only way to truly break Dread’s hold over him. Without the rite, Alphius would simply have been his pawn again in a month, a week, perhaps even the end of the day.”

Lok fixed her with a haughty, knowing stare. The stare of a man who knew he’d won an argument.

“And would you like to know what he said after the rite was complete? He thanked us. He _thanked_ us for ridding him of his magic and banishing Dread from his mind forever. After the Rite of Tranquility was administered, he was able to sleep soundly for the first time in almost five years.”

Marian’s face drew up in a furious sneer. “And you expect me to believe that?”

Lok shrugged. “You can ask your father. I’m sure he remembers the explosion and carnage that followed, seeing as he used the cover of such chaos to escape the tower while our attention was focused on saving lives.”

“You lie.”

“You lie to yourself,” Lok shot back. “You are so quick to thumb your nose at my order, but have you not considered that perhaps our duty is necessary? That perhaps there are those who were not as lucky as you, Marian Hawke, the girl who has yet to feel the influence of nightmares and demons?”

He cocked his head and frowned at her. “Do you think that if Alphius was sitting here, beside me, he would join you? That he would go gallivanting off with you and your father through a world that not only despises him, but would actively seek to destroy him if the truth of his magic was known?”

“But you didn’t give him a choice,” Marian pointed out. “You took that away from him.”

“ _Dread_ took that away from him. We merely removed his capacity for violence.”

“And literally _everything_ else!”

Lok sighed, the first signs of frustration beginning to mar his flawless chiseled face. “You truly expect me to believe you _enjoy_ it out here? Hiding away in the depths of this shithole of a city, constantly looking over your shoulder in fear that your pretty little girlfriend might discover who you are? _What_ you are?”

“I—”

“Do you truly expect me to believe,” he continued, “that you would not rather live out your days in a sanctum of knowledge and wisdom, surrounded by others like you? To live a life free from the persecution and petty discriminations visited upon you by common men?”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me, Marian, have you ever lived in a city that housed a Mage’s Circle?”

Marian frowned. “No.”

“Have you ever met a mage who lived in a Circle, besides your escapee father?”

“No.”

“Have you ever even _seen_ a Circle Tower?”

“No.”

“Then what right do you have to spit upon my work? Upon my order? Upon the institution that sought to protect the people from mages like Alphius and to protect mages like Alphius from themselves?”

Marian found it difficult to argue against such logic, though every fiber of her soul screamed at her that this man was wrong. He was lying, trying to trick her so when he struck she was confused and defenseless just like the boar he so enjoyed hunting.

But he wasn’t finished yet. Lok folded his arms across his chest and glared at her with an emerald gaze that almost seemed to spit sparks. “Let me ask you a question: did you ever return to the spot where you were attacked? By the Templar, all those years ago.”

“N-no.”

“Did your father?”

“No.”

“Before ending his life, did your father attempt to reason with the man? Did he attempt to talk to him, learn why the Templar pursued you with such vigor?”

“The man had just carved my _face_ in half!”

Lok’s voice overpowered hers. “Did your father even try? Or did he simply lash out with magic and kill on sight? Did your father act like a man or a murderer?”

Marian didn’t answer. She knew if she tried, she would only be met with some other sharp-tongued barb, some dig at the very foundations of her belief in her world. That was his game, she realized; he was eroding every confidence she had, every safeguard she put in place to assure herself that her father was a good man. That _she_ was a good woman for following in his footsteps.

“Men like me,” Lok said slowly, “only exist because of men like your father. He is no saint, Marian. He did not flee persecution and imprisonment. He capitalized upon a tragedy to steal away into the night for his own personal gain. When we set out to return him to his true home, he killed us. Again and again and again, without mercy or remorse for his actions. I ask again: are those the deeds of a man or a murderer?”

“Enough!” Marian suddenly shouted. “Whatever you’re trying to do here, whether you’re trying to convince me to go to the Circle with you or… or turn my against my father, _it won’t work_.”

She glared at him with blazing blue-gray eyes. “I know all about your kind, Seeker Lok. I’ve seen enough of them to recognize them on sight. You hide behind your shield of morality, thinking you’re some righteous knight in shining armor, protecting those who can’t protect themselves _from_ themselves.”

Her scarred face twisted into a smile as ugly as his. “But all you really want is _control._ Control of people. Control of power. You didn’t guard over the mages in that tower because you feared for their safety. You feared what would happen if they got loose. And when they did, you made damn well sure they never had the power to question your almighty authority ever again.”

She scoffed. “I bet more than one Templar wet the bed the night after Alphius’ little outburst, terrified at what might happen if news of his salt lines and magic runes reached the rest of the mages. And when their own nightmares hit them, I doubt they were of demons. They were of weak little men and women in dresses, fed up with your stupid rules and your stupid rites.

“So if you’re here to kill me,” she continued, “why don’t you stop playing the part of the talentless bard and just fucking get to it? I’m not in the mood for any more bedtime stories, you evil prick.”

Throughout her tirade, Lok’s smirk never faded. “Cute.”

His boot descended from the tabletop with a dull _thud_ that rattled the table and made Marian jump visibly. The man’s smile was wide and sinister when he saw it. He ever so slowly rose to his feet, his polished armor creaking and scraping as he did. Marian rose as well, hands balled into fists at her sides.

“Had you been blessed to live as long as I have,” he said, “you would have found that what you call _evil_ looks very different depending on your point of view.”

His hand drifted to his hip, grasped the pommel of his sword, and drew it free with a slow hiss. The sunlight streaming through the open windows danced along its razor-honed edge and made the single ruby inlaid in the pommel blaze like fresh-lit fire. His other hand still gripped the crossbow, raising it to eye-level and aiming it directly at Marian’s throat.

“A shame,” he said, “that your life will be cut short before that lesson is truly learned.”

He took a step toward her. “I will ask you only once: where is your father?”

Marian lit a fireball spell in each hand, the crackling flame consuming her hands in twisting orbs of flame. “I’ll never help you,” she snarled. “I’ll die first!”

“That can certainly be arranged.” He spun the sword lazily in his hand, letting the blade dance through the motes of dust in the air. “If you are so eager to add more scars to your already impressive collection.”

Marian brought her fists up, prepared to unleash a torrent of flame at the man. Before she could, Lok did something thoroughly surprising. He threw the crossbow at her. It hit her in the shoulder, hard and heavy enough to send her staggering. Her hand flew wide and the fireball spell shot off at a wild angle. The bolt hit the wall behind Lok and the kitchen was instantly engulfed in flame.

Now free of the crossbow, Lok’s hand clenched into a tight claw. There was a flash of blue light and Marian froze. Her limbs went rigid and her blood turned to stone in her veins, she tried to move even something as little as her eyes and failed. She tried again. And _failed_. It was as if the air had frozen into a solid block of ice around her, trapping her within with no hope of elements defrosting her invisible prison.

Lok’s hand was still twisted into that claw, fingers curled like the legs of a dead and decaying spider. His sword hadn’t moved even an inch throughout all the encounter.

“I think,” the black-haired man purred, “that you have never faced a Seeker in combat. Do you know why?”

Marian could not respond, even if she wanted to. Lok knew this, if his wicked smile was any indication.

“When faced with the prospect of single combat with a Seeker,” he said, “mages run. Not out of respect for our prowess in battle or our superior armaments. Not even out of cowardice.”

Marian could do nothing but groan between clenched teeth.

“It is because of our own magical skill. Particularly our skill at manipulating lyrium, which, as you know, can be found in every mage’s blood. We can speed its flow through your system, can cause a violent reaction with your body, or we can freeze it outright.”

He took a step closer. “You are under my complete power, Marian Hawke. Do not try to resist.”

Try to resist she did. Unsurprisingly, nothing came of it.

“You will tell me where your father hides of your own free will,” Lok said, “or I will tear it from you, piece by piece.”

His little finger twitched and suddenly Marian could talk again. It left her slack-jawed and jittery and she had to gulp several times before she was able to summon her usually stellar powers of speech.

“I…” she coughed. Her chest was barely able to move for breath. “I… won’t let you hurt him.”

“Wrong answer.”

Lok clenched his fingers tighter and Marian’s body was speared by a million tiny needles. They struck deep, forcing their way down to the very marrow of her bones. She tried to scream but couldn’t — her constricted chest and lungs wouldn’t allow for it.

“You feel that?” Lok flashed his white teeth at her. “That is how it feels when the lyrium in your blood is charged with reactive magic.”

Tears began leaking from Marian’s single functional eye.

“It’s only a minute charge now. But much more…” The fingers clenched tighter and the needles dug deeper. Marian could do nothing to escape. “Much more and your very blood will be set aflame. It will consume you from the inside out, burning away all you are with chaotic abandon. A _very_ unpleasant way to die.”

He took another step closer. “Tell me where your father hides.”

“N-no!”

The needles dug even deeper. She was now flushed a deep red, the cords standing out stark and clear on her neck. Her face twitched, muscles spasming against her will. Her entire _body_ was acting against her will. Lok’s blade came up, the point resting cold and sharp against her cheek just under her good eye. It dug in there, deeper and deeper until it pricked the skin and drew the slightest trickle of blood that fell like a wet tear down her face.

“Tell me,” the Seeker repeated, “or that scar on your pretty face will be the least of your concerns.”

“I-I won’t…”

“If I apply more pressure,” the man murmured, drawing even closer. He was almost nose to nose with her now, and the motion dug the blade in deeper to Marian’s cheek. “I can slip this blade right into your eye socket. A single twist of the hilt and I pop your eyeball from your face.”

“F-fuck you—”

The hand clenched into a fist and the needles set into her with newfound bloodlust. Her heart seized in her chest, the muscles of her arms and legs straining to clench and curl inward but unable to do so. She tried to scream but couldn’t, tried to summon a pulse of mana to free herself but couldn’t. The smoke from the still-burning kitchen stung her eyes and clogged her throat with scratchy barbs.

With the all the smoke pouring into the room, she didn’t see the shadow that swelled up behind Lok. She didn’t hear footsteps fast approaching. She didn’t spot the crackling ball of flame, hidden as it was among the fire already crawling up the kitchen wall. Lok, apparently, did not notice either.

“One more time.” he purred, oblivious to the threat now looming over him. “Tell me where your father is hiding.”

“Right behind you, asshole.”

Fire leapt out from the kitchen, pulsing in a tightly-controlled wave that hit Lok square in the back. The sword was knocked from his hand, the blade slicing a thin slash along Marian’s face before clattering to the ground. The Seeker’s hand fell to his side and the invisible cage holding Marian hostage evaporated in a quick _pop_ of blue-white light. She collapsed onto her hands and knees, her entire frame shaking with wracking coughs as her lungs finally managed to suck down a full breath.

“Marian! Stay down!”

She heard someone shout, heard Lok’s blade hiss through the air like an angry serpent mid-strike. Something crashed. The table was knocked into the air and thrown across the room, one leg snapped off by the force of its landing. All the windows shattered as a concussive blast sent Lok flying after it. He crashed right through the wall and did not reemerge.

Malcolm Hawke stalked through the smoke and destruction, staff in hand and fire licking at his arms. His eyes were blazing with blue light, just like that day so long ago when he’d saved Marian from yet another vengeful Templar. His strong hand wrapped around his daughter’s arm and he hauled her to her feet.

“Up you get, Sparrowhawk. Did he hurt you?”

She coughed again and shook her head. “Nothing lasting. Is he dead?”

There was a grim set to her father’s jaw. “No. I hit him hard, but he’ll be back on his feet. We need to be long gone when that happens. Grab your essentials and some food for the road. We’re leaving.”

“We’re not going to kill him?’

Malcolm shook his head. “We know our enemy now. We kill him, they’ll only send another. Maybe two. Better the devil you know, right?”

~~~~~~~~

They met outside two minutes later. The cottage was still on fire and the flames were now licking up the exterior as well. A cavernous hole had been punched through the wall by Lok’s less than elegant exit. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, though a deep furrow in the ground showed where he’d made landfall.

“He’s gone,” Marian observed. “You think he ran?”

“I doubt it,” Malcolm said. “Lok will fall back to strike from the shadows. I know his style. We need to leave before he can set himself up again.”

“I need to warn Brooke.”

“What?”

“Brooke. He’s seen her face. Knows who she is. I need to warn her before Lok goes for her.”

“We need to _leave_ , Sparrowhawk.” Malcolm’s heavy hand fell onto her shoulder. “We need to find your mother and the twins and get out of this city before Lok turns everyone in it against us.”

“I won’t abandon her. I’ve seen what Lok can do to people when he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“Marian—”

“You said,” she interrupted forcefully, “to ask myself whether she’s worth fighting for. I said yes. What does that mean if I’m not willing to fight for her when she needs me to?”

“She doesn’t know. About any of this.”

“She doesn’t have to. She knows Lok is bad news. That he’s dangerous. I tell her he’s got some vendetta and—”

A high-pitched whistle cut her off and her father shouted, “Down!” The arrow streaking through the air toward them ricocheted off Malcolm’s shimmering magical shield, clattering off into the alleyway.

When the shield dropped, its absence revealed Lok standing just down the street. His armor was scuffed and smeared with dirt and his right eye was swelling with a fresh bruise. But that same nasty smile was plastered onto his sharp-angled face. His ruby-inlaid sword was resting on his shoulder, while in his other hand he clutched the miniature handheld crossbow. The weapon fell from his grasp, its ammunition spent.

Malcolm instantly summoned a ball of fire in his hands, letting it roar and crackle malevolently between his palms. Marian leveled her staff crystal-first at the armored knight, the polished head glowing bright amber with magical charge. Lok did not seem intimidated in the least.

“I told you I found a new way to hunt boar,” he said, scuffing at the dirt with the tip of his boot. “Hunt them down at their home, where they do not think to be threatened. I did not, however, tell you the most important rule of any hunt.”

He raised two fingers in the air and released a short whistle. Papa tensed at the sound and Marian followed suit at the sound that followed: the drumbeat of armored footsteps approaching from further the down road. A second later no fewer than ten Templar knights came marching into sight behind Lok. Malcolm’s eyes widened, as did his daughter’s. Both quickly extinguished their magic before it could be seen.

“The most important rule of any hunt,” Lok repeated, “is to never hunt alone.”

Even more eyes were watching now. Villagers were appearing in the windows, on front steps, peeking around corners. The Templars were doing a wonderful job drawing attention to the spectacle — which was, of course, what Seeker Lok wanted.

Marian saw with mounting apprehension that Knight-Captain Trevor was among the knights present. She didn’t like the prospect of fighting him; he’d always been kind to her and her family. He’d known from the start that the Hawkes had been mages and had never once thought of turning them over to the unforgiving blades of his order. Now it looked like he didn’t have a choice.

At their apparent shock, the Seeker let out a loud cackle and spread his arms wide.

“The time to choose is now, Hawkes!” he shouted, his voice booming through the streets so all assembled could hear. “Use your precious magic to defend yourselves, or fall in the face of sword and shield!”

“Marian,” Papa murmured, “give me the staff.”

“What?”

“When I tell you, I want you to run.”

“What? No! I’m not leaving you!”

“Do as I say. Find Brooke.” Everything about Malcolm was cold and grim: his expression, the set of his shoulders, even his clenched fists. He was every bit a man prepared to kill and die in the coming moments. “Say what you need to say. But we are leaving South Reach by sunset.”

“But—”

“You stand there like frightened goats!” Lok shouted to them from down the street. He pointed his sword at them. “Is this truly the fearsome Malcolm Hawke, scourge of the Templar mage-hunters? All I see is a tired old man and his frightened little girl.”

Malcolm’s hand beckoned. “The staff. _Now_.”

“You can’t face them all alone! You—”

He grew tired of her arguing. His fingers clenched into hooks and an unseen force yanked the wooden scepter from her grip, sending it sailing through the air before it clapped into Malcolm’s palm. He spun it in a single lazy circle with the easy familiarity only years of practice could impart, holding it so the crystal pointed down toward his boots and the bloodstained blade protruded over his shoulder.

“Go, Marian,” he said again. “I will gather your mother and the twins when I’m finished here. We’ll meet on the edge of town, near the windmill. Do you understand?”

“Papa, I don’t want to—”

He looked at her and she bit back a frightened whimper. Her father’s eyes were no longer their captivating silver. Swirling blue had taken their place, twin pools of roiling smoke consuming his eyes and sending wafts of magical discharge crawling up around his face.

“Do you understand?” he repeated. His voice was cold and hard in a way she had never heard before.

She quickly nodded. “Y-yes.”

“Then _go!”_

He didn’t give her time to argue further. He turned back to the assembled Templars and stepped toward them. The crystal at the head of his staff began to glow a brilliant cobalt — the same shade as his eyes, Marian noticed.

“You can chase me,” he called out as he approached the line of armed and armored knights. They all drew their weapons and raised their shields as he drew closer. He glared at all of them with an uncharacteristic malevolence, that blazing blue stare sweeping over them all with the power of a vengeful god. “You can track me and ambush me and hurt me all you like. I’ve endured worse. But you _will not_ threaten my family with such barbarism.”

“You brought them into this, Malcolm Hawke,” Seeker Lok leered. The chill breeze made his cloak flap and billow around him like the unfurling wings of a dragon. “You are the only one to blame for the danger they now face.”

“Take me if you want,” Malcolm said. “But leave my family out of it.”

“I think…” Lok tapped his sharp chin, pretending to think for a few moments, “…no. Your daughter is a mage just as you are. And I’m sure she is not the only spawn of your cursed line.”

He brought the ruby-inlaid sword up again, this time into a stronger two-handed grip. “But I will offer you a kindness, Malcolm Hawke: lay down your arms and your children will be sent to the Kirkwall Circle with you. You can live out the rest of your days as a happy little family, just like you always wanted.”

“I’ll die before I let you take my children to that accursed place,” Malcolm snarled.

Lok looked truly disappointed. “If that is your wish. It was a charitable offer, but I cannot hold it against you for refusing. You always were stubborn in that way.”

Malcolm’s hand darted forward, carrying the staff forward in a fearsome thrust. A wave of invisible energy roared forth, kicking up the dust of the street all around him as it raced for the Templars. But Lok simply crossed his arms in an X across his chest and the repulsive wave broke harmlessly before him like an ocean wave across craggy rocks. The Templars had seen enough now; as one they raised their shields, brought their swords into a high guard, and leaped forward into battle.

The first was blown to bloody bits before he could even get within two paces of Malcolm. The second was sent staggering away, clutching at his head as a swarm of magically-conjured bees stung and bit at his unshielded eyes. Rocks flew up from the ground and pelted the knight’s armor, and the air around Malcolm Hawke spontaneously burst into flame.

Marian knew her opportunity to flee this scene was quickly closing. Doing her best to shut out the screams of Templars and normal citizens alike that now echoed through the streets, she raced into the depths of the village and didn’t look back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: I was going to write an epic battle scene between Malcolm and Lok, but A) I realized this story is more focused on Marian and her experiences than the adventures of her father, and B) I’m lazy and didn’t want to.
> 
> That said, don’t worry. There are battles a’plenty still to come. :)


	10. Inferno

**Darktown**

The craggy, shadowed alleys of Darktown were in chaos. Bodies lay strewn everywhere: humans, dwarves, elves, and qunari all huddled together in a final orgy of gore and death. The sand beneath Merrill’s feet churned and squelched, thick with blood. The rough stone walls were spattered here and there with sprays of red and battle-damaged weapons lay abandoned in the streets, strewn over the corpses of their former owners or resting forgotten where they had been thrown in terrified retreat. A few brave Darktown residents were beginning to emerge from their barricaded homes, mostly to investigate or loot the dead. The vast majority, thank the Creators, didn’t spare a second glance to a single man and elf hurrying through the carnage with their laden stretcher. Merrill hoped they continued to find greater interest in the dead than the quickly-dying.

Another small blessing was the distinct lack of Templars. The knights rarely descended this far into the city’s underbelly, and their absence would certainly make matters easier. The last thing Hawke needed was to be discovered here, so close to salvation.

Merrill glanced down at Marian, still bundled up in the stretcher. She had begun coughing up blood again and her chin and neck were stained a deep reddish-black. She was far too pale and her breath was coming up from deep in her chest as a harsh, wheezing rattle. She wouldn’t last much longer.

“How much farther?” she asked, her voice breathless and fearful. Her heart was hammering in her chest, both from worry and the exertion of hauling Hawke so quickly through the dark streets. She had never been that physically strong to begin with, and the exertion of keeping up with Anders — a well-built human almost twice her size — was quickly draining her stamina.

“Not far.” Ahead of her, the healer hoisted his end of the stretcher more securely into his grasp. “The Darktown entrance to the tower is just ahead.”

On the stretcher, Marian twitched and coughed up another spurt of blood. It dribbled down her cheek, along the divot of the scar on her face. It broke Merrill’s heart to see her friend and lover in such a condition and part of her wanted to stop and clean Hawke’s face so she could sleep easier. But it was plain to see that the woman was fading fast. If they didn’t reach the Templars soon…

Anders suddenly raised his voice and called out, “You there! Is that Patreus?”

A young boy, no older than ten, looked up from where he was pawing over the hulking gray corpse of a fallen Qunari that lay face-down in a puddle of dark, dried blood. The boy’s pockets were bulging from stolen loot, and his eyes were wild with fear at the sudden calling of his name. He obviously expected a Templar or a Guardsman to come storming toward him out of the shadows, but visibly relaxed when he saw it was only Anders.

“Oi ‘ere, Anders!” the boy called with a happy, gap-toothed smile, his voice clouded with a thick accent. “Whit ye got thar?”

Anders slowed next to the boy, panting hard. Merrill’s own breath was coming in painful bursts in her chest, and her thin arms ached from the weight of her burden. She made a conscious effort to calm her racing heart while Anders talked with the boy.

The child, Patreus, hopped up next to the stretcher and peered over the edge with a curious stare. When he saw Marian’s bloodied form churning on the bundle, his face pulled down in a knowing frown far too grim for a child of his age.

“Ah,” he said. “Got by ‘em Qunari, eh?”

“We’re taking her to the Circle Tower,” Anders huffed. “She needs a talented healer.”

Patreus scrunched up his face at the man. “Have ye tint yer mind? Gonnae go to th’ Templars with ‘er?”

“We have no choice,” Anders said. “I tried my best, but she’ll die without help.”

The boy chewed the inside of his cheek, obviously disturbed by the revelation, then sniffed and said, “Well, whot do I have tae do wit it? Ain’t no scruff o’ mine.”

“We need someone to tell the Templars we’re coming,” Anders said, his patient tone shot through with just a little too much tension to be believed. “If we just barge in unannounced, they’re more likely to capture or kill us on sight. You’ll travel faster than we can. Will you do this for us?”

The boy scratched his head, running calloused fingers through stubble-shorn hair marked with lice bites. Then he sniffed again and muttered, “Aye. Might. But nae for free.”

Anders scowled at the boy, but gestured with his chin to a pocket on his robes. “You can take a silver for yourself. But only if you run as fast as you can.”

The boy’s face lit up and he darted in like a striking eagle, hand digging into Anders’ pocket. After only a blink he’d procured not just a silver coin, but Anders’ entire purse. Clutched tight in his little fist, he took off into the alley with a cry of, “On yer time, Master Anders!”

“Hey!” the mage shouted after him, face reddening with fury. “You little—”

He looked like he wanted to chase after the child, but Merrill called him back before he could.

“Later, Anders,” she insisted. Marian was groaning and beginning to thrash on the stretcher. “We need to move.”

“Right.” Anders looked a little sheepish and hoisted the stretcher once more. “We’re not far now.”

Marian coughed again, deep in her chest, and bloody bubbles swelled from her lips. Merrill grimaced as she took up the weight of the wounded woman again. “You keep saying that. You’d better be right this time.”

They set off at a brisk pace, quickly regaining their earlier speed. More looters were appearing behind every new corner, and more and more of them were armed. Fights were already breaking out over the most decorated corpses and more than one gang was kicking in doors to plunder the homes within. Shouts, curses, and the occasional scream could be heard throughout the subterranean slums. Merrill wondered how long it would take for attention to shift to the two unarmed travelers hurrying through the mayhem, all but helpless and ripe for the picking.

As they lugged their burden along, Merrill panted out, “Do you think the child will keep his word?”

“Patreus is a gutter rat,” Anders said with a scowl, “but he’s surprisingly reliable. I treated him when he stepped barefoot on a rusted nail a month ago. He can only run so quickly because of me and he knows it. He’ll do what I asked.”

“I hope you’re right,” Merrill said, looking once more down at Marian’s bloodstained form, “for her sake.”

Then she set her jaw and ran on.

~~~~~~~~

Marian sprinted through the streets as fast as her feet could carry her, flying down side-alleys and leaping over obstacles like a woman possessed. She could still hear the clamor of battle in the distance, could see the flashes of light along the rooftops as fireballs and bolts of lightning arced high into the air. Soon the entire town would know of the mages hidden in their midst, and she had to be sure she and — Maker willing — Brooke were long gone when that happened.

She skidded around a corner, spraying a film of muddy water as she went, then yanked herself into motion again and barreled past a pair of fat city watchmen, passively observing the light show that had erupted on the outskirts of town. As she passed, one of the men glanced in her direction and shouted, “Oi! What’s goin’ on?”

Ignoring them would only breed suspicion, so Marian slowed and turned, walking backwards to put more distance between them and their hefty pikes. She shrugged and tried to put on an innocent expression.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Some Templar business. I didn’t want to get too close.”

As she said it, a huge tendril of lightning exploded up into the heavens, accompanied by a thunderclap that seemed to shake the ground. All three onlookers flinched at the sight and sound. It was like armageddon had descended upon South Reach, and she heard screams of surprise and terror ring through the streets as the magical discharge roared across the heavens.

After a long, tense moment the horizon dulled back to its normal dark blue, now lit with the flickering illumination of the fires crawling across rooftops as the blaze engulfing the Hawke cottage spread to adjoining houses.

When the eruption faded, the fat man glanced at his companion and muttered, “Maker’s blood. Think it’s an apostate?”

The other guard shrugged and rested his spear against his shoulder to rub at his ringing ears. “Dunno. Hard to believe one of their kind would bed down in South Reach.”

“Think we should… y’know, investigate?”

A quick shake of the head in response. “You heard the girl: it’s Templar business. Leave ‘em to clean up their own mess for a change.”

Marian didn’t need to stick around and hear more. She spun and sprinted off again, through the market square crowded with other curious onlookers. Thankfully, most didn’t seem to be paying attention to her and a few of the more cautious village residents were also making a beeline in the opposite direction, all too eager to put distance between themselves and whatever was painting the skies with fire. She had no trouble blending in, slowing her pace to both catch her breath and draw less attention to her retreat. She made sure to keep her face turned down, to cast her scar into shadow lest someone recognize her.

_Not far now,_ she thought, feeling her heart thudding uncomfortably in her throat. _Brooke’s home is just a little further_.

There were more Templars in this direction, though they all seemed to be heading toward the source of the commotion, weapons in hand. Most barely spared her a second glance, too busy pulling their rounded helmets over their heads and emblazoned shields into their hands. Not just precautions; these knights were gearing up for war. They shoved past villagers and shouted for everyone to return to their homes, pushing some more stubborn individuals out of their way and in the opposite direction of the maelstrom. Marian did her best to steer clear, keeping to the outskirts of the fleeing civilians and taking care not to cross paths with any overattentive knights. She knew better than most how sharp their eyes were, even shadowed as they were beneath those ominous angular helmets.

She worried at the sheer number of warriors racing to throw themselves against her father. There had to be almost fifty just in this part of the city, and all were converging on him. Malcolm was a powerful mage, it could not be denied, but Marian had never seen the limits of his abilities tested in such a way. Could he survive the onslaught of so many knights _and_ the Seeker out for his blood?

She thought back to her childhood in the forests, when a massive bear had wandered past their cottage one day. It seemed as large as a mountain, bristling with matted fur and muscle as it nosed about in search of a meal. Mother had insisted Malcolm kill it, but the Hawke’s patriarch had simply cast a misdirection hex and sent it lumbering away into the treeline, none the wiser.

Malcolm was powerful, but he was no true warrior. He preferred stealth over slaughter, and it had been years since he’d been forced to use his magic offensively. In fact, the last time was…

_That day_ , she realized with a cold, sinking sensation in her gut. _The day the Templar found me in the woods. The day I got my scars._

He was fighting the same way again today, battling against Templar invaders to keep his family safe from their righteous retribution. Did the same fury boil his blood as it had that day, so long ago? Would he be every bit the vengeful god he had appeared then, towering over her as she had lain bleeding and afraid at his feet? Or were those days of action beyond him now, weakened as he was be age and ever-present illness?

She quickly forced such worries from her mind. Her father would be fine. He _had_ to be fine. He hadn’t survived this long on the run without crossing paths with Templars before.

_He can handle himself_ , she forced herself to think. _What matters now is finding Brooke and getting out of this town with Mother and the twins before it’s too late._

She almost collapsed from equal parts relief and exhaustion when she rounded a corner and the Moorlay cottage came into view. She didn’t see anyone outside, but one of the windows burned with the flickering light of a blazing hearth. Someone was home, and if it wasn’t Brooke then it was someone who could send Marian in the right direction.

She vaulted over the fence that bordered the small property and leaped up the front steps to the door, pounding on it hard with her fist in three quick raps. _Bang, bang, bang._ When there was no immediate answer, she beat the door again and called, “Brooke? Brooke, are you there?”

Her mind was suddenly filled with images of Seeker Lok. The bastard seemed to be everywhere at once and had managed to make it to South Reach before either of them had returned home. What if he’d been waiting for Brooke upon her return home just as he’d been waiting for Marian?

But then she heard rushed footsteps on the other side of the door and it swung open to reveal Brooke herself, looking worried and confused. Marian almost collapsed into her arms from relief.

“Marian?” the young woman asked. “What’s going on—”

Marian hushed her with a quick kiss, then brushed past her into the house. “Close the door. It’s not safe out there.”

Brooke’s confusion visibly grew, but she did as she was asked. “I heard noises outside, and Templars have been running past for a good ten minutes. What the hell is happening?”

Marian quickly rushed into the small kitchen and glanced out the window. Bright flares of red were still lighting up the sky in the distance, and more civilians were now running past in the opposite direction. The spreading fire from the Hawke cottage could now be seen even from this distance, and the billowing column of smoke rising into the air had obscured the sky, turning the setting sun a sick, bloody scarlet.

Word was clearly spreading that a magical battle was raging through the streets, and panic was clearly working its way through the populace. Marian knew she didn’t have much time left before escape became next to impossible, either from Templars locking down the village or simply the masses of locals trying to escape.

_We need to leave_ , she thought. _Now._

She took a quick moment to catch her breath, hunched low over the kitchen table, before she turned back to Brooke. The woman was standing with arms folded worriedly across her chest, staring at Marian with concern written across every feature.

“Sorry,” Marian breathed. “I’m sorry. Seeker Lok came back and…”

She didn’t know where to begin. How much should she tell Brooke? Did she even have time to tell her everything? If Malcolm was outed as an apostate, it was only a matter of time before the Templars came looking for his missing family members too. And Brooke was known to be friends with the Hawkes. If they decided to come here…

“Marian,” Brooke moved forward and took Marian’s hands in her own. “Talk to me.”

Hawke took a deep breath and chose her words carefully before beginning. “When we left camp this morning, that man Lok followed us. He’s insane, Brooke. There’s houses on fire, Templars fighting in the streets… He’s turning the city into a battlefield.”

“What? Why?”

She shrugged helplessly, praying it was convincing. “I-I don’t know! But he has the Templars on his side. They’re fighting someone out there, but—”

Brooke moved past her to stare out the window as well, watching the rooftops flare with magical light. “The Templars? But they’d only get involved if there are apostates on the loose!”

She quickly grabbed a carving knife from the table and clutched it close. “If the Templars are on the warpath, the looters and rioters won’t be far behind. I’ve seen it happen before.”

She turned and looked to Marian with fear in her eyes. “Have you seen these apostates? Are they dangerous?”

“We can’t know for sure,” Marian lied, “but the fact is this city isn’t safe any more. My father wants us to leave now, before anyone is hurt. And I want you to come with me.”

Brooke froze, eyes wide. “But… but what about my family? They can come too, right?”

“Of course,” Marian assured her. “Where are they?”

“I-I don’t know,” Brooke fretted. “Mother took Bolton to the markets and father is out building a new farmhouse on the edge of town. Marian, what if they’re _out there_? What if they’re in danger?”

“We can find them. But first we need to get to safety ourselves before this mess reaches us.”

“I don’t…” Brooke paced back and forth, clutching the knife to her chest with all the desperation of a woman clinging to a life preserving chunk of driftwood. “I don’t know… the Templars know what’s best for us, right? They’d probably want us to stay in our homes so they can sort this out!”

“The Templars only care about containing the situation,” Marian said with a sour tone. “They won’t care if we slip out while their attention is focused elsewhere.”

“But—”

“Brooke,” Marian took a step closer, but another bolt of lightning lit up the sky outside and the ensuing explosive boom made the other woman jump as if Marian had advanced with a fist raised to strike. She halted with her hands raised in surrender, both listening as fearful screams echoed through the streets outside in the ringing quiet left by the explosion’s echo.

“Brooke,” Marian said slowly, “I know you’re scared. I am too. But we need to get out of here before Seeker Lok finds us here. He knows where we live. He knows where to look.”

The other woman shook her head again and turned back to the window. She stared outside, watching the chaos unfold just beyond her window. Over her shoulder, Marian began to pace worriedly, eyes never leaving her lover.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I knew Lok was trouble. I should have gotten us away sooner, should have—”

“Wait.”

Marian stopped, a chill running down her spine at the quiet command in Brooke’s voice. “What?”

“You said Lok followed us back.” Brooke turned back to Marian. “Followed us home. Why would he do that?”

Marian’s heart was pounding uncomfortably in her chest now. “I-I don’t know.”

“But Lok told us he’s a Seeker,” Brooke continued. Her face was pulled into a deep frown. “And Seekers only hunt renegade mages. So why would he be interested in us? I’m just a layabout, and you…”

Marian took a hesitant step closer. “Brooke, we don’t have time for this.”

“Unless…” Brooke’s brown eyes slowly met Marian’s silver ones. Hawke could see the hurt blooming there, the twisted look of pain and disbelief and betrayal that could only be caused by dawning realization of a long-held lie.

Marian’s charade was well and truly over.

“Unless,” Brooke hissed, “he’s here for you.”

~~~~~~~~

On the far outskirts of the village, along the borders of the forest that hugged the river’s edge, a pair of green eyes watched from the darkness as fire consumed South Reach. They raked over the pillar of smoke that poured into the sky, darted to and fro as magical discharge raced off into the air. She could taste the smoke on the wind, even this far from the flames and the chaos. She could hear the screams, the thunderous discharge of magic, and the clash of steel on steel as the fighting continued.

Saidavel knew Malcolm was a tempest, a destructive hurricane of magic aimed out at any who threatened his family. She had sensed it long ago, during their brief meeting during the Hawkes’ emergence from exile. She knew he would fight with the fury of a lion to protect his wife and children from harm, and oceans of blood would surely be shed before the aging mage was brought to heel. The night was still young, and many more would be dead before this mess was through.

And then, her senses finally found what she had been looking for.

Saidavel took a deep, mournful breath as she felt the eldest Hawke’s anguish roll over her. Even from this distance, she could sense years of the the young woman’s fear and worry solidify, harden, and then shatter in a single devastating moment.

The truth was out. At long last.

“ _Ir abelas,_ little dragon,” she murmured. “Here, her path diverges from yours.”

Over her shoulder, a second set of eyes peered out from the darkness, and a gravely voice said, “You should have told her long ago and spared her the pain she is about to endure.”

“The heart must bear its suffering,” Saidavel murmured, watching the town as it was consumed in flame and death. “And this pain carries a lesson she must learn.”

A smug chuckle from the darkness behind her. “We shall see.”

~~~~~~~~

“Brooke—”

Brook took a step back as Marian took one closer, her hand drifting up to cover her mouth as tears sprang into her eyes. “Oh, Marian. Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you had nothing to do with this.”

“Brooke, I—”

“Tell me Lok isn’t coming here for you. Tell me you’re not… not…”

Marian bit her lip, feeling tears springing to her one good eye. She blinked them back and stammered, “Brooke, we don’t have time—”

“We have time for this,” the young woman said with more than a little iron in her voice. “Tell me the _truth_ , Marian.”

Hawke screwed her eyes shut, hands clenched into fists. It was several endless moments before she spilled out the words that had been pent up in her heart ever since she met the girl from Starkhaven.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said, “so many times, for so long.”

A strangled gasp escaped Brooke’s throat, and her hand once again covered her mouth, as if to catch the sob that was trying to fight its way out of her.

“I only wanted to keep you safe!” Marian insisted. “I didn’t want to… to scare you away because of who I am. Of what I am.”

Brooke’s voice was quiet and shaking as she whispered, “What are you, Marian?”

Hawke closed her eyes again, as if bracing for a blow to fall. She half expected Brooke to hit her; she deserved that and quite a bit more. “I… I’m sorry.”

The other woman’s voice quivered with a tortured mixture of pain, betrayal, and rage. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m… I’m a mage,” Marian said. “An apostate. So is my father. So is my sister.”

“You lied to me,” Brooke said. “All this time, ever since we met. You’ve been _lying_ about _everything_!”

“I didn’t want to!” Marian cried. “You have no idea how much I wanted to tell you. Every time I kissed you, looked in your eyes, smiled and laughed with you. Every time I thought, _this is it: I’ll tell her now._ But—”

“But you didn’t.”

Again, Hawke winced as if struck. “I didn’t.”

“Because you didn’t trust me?”

“No!” Marian said. “No, because… because I was _afraid_!”

“Afraid of me.”

“ _No_! No, Brooke I _love_ you! I want to spend the rest of my life with you!”

“You expect me to believe that,” Brooke’s voice was shaking with barely-controlled tears, “when you’ve been lying to me for how long?”

“The only thing I want,” Marian insisted, “is for you to be safe.”

Brooke scoffed. “For all I know, you just want me as a hostage so you can bargain your way out of Lok’s clutches!”

“Brooke, you have to believe me—”

“I do, do I?” The girl’s voice was louder now, and growing harsher with each word. “Why, Marian? Because we’re so _close?_ Because you love me _so much_? Because I love… because…”

She broke down then, pressing her fist to her mouth while clutching the knife against her stomach. Marian watched her, helpless in the face of her shattered web of deception. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to _do_ to convince her lover that whatever lies she’d told in the past, the words coming from her mouth now were nothing but truth.

“Brooke,” she said, “come with me. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done to you or where we go from here. Lok will hurt you, if only to get to me.”

“And I suppose that’s one more lie, is it?” Brooke spat. “That I’d be safe with you, with a _Seeker_ hunting for me?”

Marian stopped, let her hands fall to her sides. Her silver tongue, so readily available with some snide remark or sarcastic quip in the past, was now failing her at every turn. She knew all Brooke’s feelings of rage and betrayal were more than justified. The bond between them was twisted and torn, if not broken completely, and no amount of honeyed words or declarations of love would fix that. Not here and now, with Templars closing in and South Reach burning around them.

“Tell me what to say,” she said helplessly. “Tell me what to do. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

Brooke stared at her as Hawke continued, “I don’t want to lose you. You’re the most important person in my life, and if this… if this is the end… I don’t want to imagine what comes next.”

There was silence for a long time, invaded by the muffled sounds of battle and screams from outside. Brooke stared at Hawke while Hawke stared at the ground. It seemed like the silence would last forever, that no more words could be said between the two. Then—

“Kiss me.”

Marian frowned and looked up. “What?”

Brooke raised her chin, eyes flashing with that inner fire Hawke so loved. “Kiss me. I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying. Prove you’re telling the truth and I’ll go with you.”

Marian hesitated, dumbfounded by this second chance she’d been given. Her heart had leaped into her throat and her head spun at the possibilities of the statement. Maybe it wasn’t the end. Maybe it wasn’t too late to salvage something from this mess of her making.

She didn’t need long to decide. Without a second thought, she rushed forward and threw herself into Brooke’s arms, pouring every ounce of love and devotion into the kiss that she could muster. She would show this girl how much she cared. She would show her and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no one in this world that mattered more, no one who commanded her heart but—

She stopped and pulled away, a frown crossing her features. She watched as the fire in Brooke’s beautiful eyes froze over into ice. A sneer passed across Brooke’s lips as Marian’s, still flooded with the taste of her lover, parted in a groan. In confusion and disbelief, Marian looked down between them.

Brooke’s knife was sunk hilt-deep into her stomach.

She felt no pain, not through the hazy cloud of shock and confusion. Just a strange, disconnected _poking_ sensation in her gut. She looked back up at Brooke, features twisted with disbelief, as she felt heat spreading from the wound as blood soaked through her jerkin.

“Brooke—” she gasped.

“ _Apostate_ ,” the other woman spat, her quiet voice quivering with suppressed rage. And that one word carried more malice and venom than Marian had heard from any other mouth. Her heart, already strained by the chaos of the night, broke.

The Starkhaven girl yanked the knife free, and only then did the pain come; it flooded Marian’s body, spreading out from the wound like tendrils of poison in her veins. She doubled up, clutching her hands to her bleeding stomach with an agonized groan. Patters of red painted the ground beneath her feet, dripping down from her clutched fingers.

Brooke backed away with bloody knife still clutched in her hand. Then, as if only then remembering her plan, she whirled and threw open the window and screamed, “Help! Apostate! There’s an apostate here!”

The words had the desired effect; outside, Marian could see two armored Templars halt and turn toward the house, swords drawn.

Marian groaned out, “Brooke—”

Brooke whirled on her with the knife again. “Stay away from me, apostate. I should have turned you in the moment I met you.”

Indescribable hurt blossomed in Marian’s gaze and she reached out a bloodied hand. “Brooke, why—”

“Stay away!” Brooke darted away from her touch, putting the kitchen table between them. “Stay away or I’ll stab you again, I swear by Andraste.”

Marian staggered back, still confused. But Brooke, hunched over the table like some snarling animal, breathlessly said, “The Templars will be here soon. If you want to live, you need to leave.”

“Brooke—”

“ _Go_!” the girl screamed. “And don’t come back!”

Marian was about to say more when the door slammed open and the first of the approaching Templars threw himself inside with a shout, sword drawn.

Marian reacted instinctively, raising one bloody arm to project a magical shield that deflected the incoming blow. With the other, she lit a melon-sized fireball and threw it outward to hit the Templar full in the chest. The man staggered back with a shout of pain and collapsed to the floor, a large hole seared clean through his chest.

The second Templar jumped over his fallen comrade, shield up and sword poised to strike. With a groan of pained effort, Marian made a yanking motion with her arm and ripped the shield from her attacker’s grasp before reversing the move and sending the heavy hunk of metal crashing into the man’s chest, sending him off balance. She hit him with a fireball too, taking off his head at the shoulders with a blast of fire that left his body twitching before it hit the ground.

Her strength fled, and she collapsed to her knees. Blood soaked her clothes and streamed to the ground in sticky rivulets. Marian’s head was spinning from a heady mess of betrayal, grief, and pain, and only a titanic force of will allowed her to struggle back to her feet with an agonized groan.

She turned to find Brooke off her feet as well, curled up against the wall with eyes as wide as dinner plates. She still clutched at her knife, held outward like a sword against her attacker — against Marian.

It only took a single look at Brooke’s face. A single look at the terror in her beautiful eyes that had once bloomed with righteous fire. At the way she trembled as Hawke loomed over her. At the way her every motion, her every breath, seemed to accuse Marian of the very thoughts that were racing through her own mind.

_Liar. Apostate. Murderer._ Monster _._

It was all over. Marian realized with a cold, empty sensation in her punctured gut that whatever had been between her and Brooke, no matter how strong, was gone now. If she stayed here, all she would find was more pain and loss — if the Templars didn’t find her first.

“I’m…” Her voice cracked, but she still felt compelled to say one last, “I’m sorry.”

Brooke didn’t answer. Marian almost didn’t want her to. _Let this be the end_ , she thought with cold clarity. _Get it over with quickly. There are still people out there who need you. Mother and the twins. Papa._

_There’s nothing left for you here._

She turned and limped out of Brooke’s cottage without another word or longing look back, knowing as her eyes darted over the fire on the horizon that her life was now truly burning all around her.

~~~~~~~~

Merrill knew their luck had to run out sooner rather than later. She had known it wouldn’t be long before the denizens of Darktown, bored of the looting and the bloodshed, would cast their gaze upon the vulnerable duo carrying their wounded friend through unfriendly streets. What she hadn’t expected was how little time they truly had.

She and Anders turned a sharp corner, both gasping for breath as they labored on. Marian let out a low groan, but was otherwise silent and still. It was at once a blessing and a curse: it was easier to carry her without her thrashing about, but it also meant their time was growing short. She wouldn’t last much longer.

The attack came before either had time to react. Someone barreled out of a nearby hovel and took Anders around the waist, carrying them both to the ground. Merrill was yanked off-balance when the Mage was forced away from his end of the stretcher and she staggered before a meaty, stinking fist caught her in the jaw and sent her sprawling as well.

“What’choo got there?” a thick, watery voice rumbled. Through streaming eyes, Merrill saw a hulking man, smeared with dirt and blood, looming above her. He cracked his knuckles with a black-toothed leer. “What’choo got that’s got’cha runnin’ so fast?”

Merrill tried to speak, to plead for the man and his companion, who was currently locked in a fistfight with Anders, to let them pass. But a heavy boot hit her square in the face before she could manage a single word and she sprawled on her back with a cry of pain.

“Got yerselves a nice haul o’ loot?” the man snarled as his meaty fist wrapped tight around her throat. “Somefin’ you’re tryin’ ta hide from the rest’v us?”

With a grunt, he hoisted Merrill up to face him. Her feet kicked empty air as she choked and struggled against his iron grip.

“Nah,” the other man said. He’d pinned Anders to the ground with a knee across the man’s throat. “Just some bleedin’ bitch.”

“What?”

“Look! She’s bleedin’ all over the place.”

The idea of the men pawing over Hawke in search of some trinket ignited a fire in Merrill’s belly. Her face twisted with rage, even as she fought for breath caught in her captor’s meaty fist. The air heated around her fingers, clutching at the man’s dirty forearm, and began to crackle with energy.

“Wait… ‘er face is all scratched up. Weren’t there some lady the Templars were looking for? Some apostate or somefin’?”

The man holding Merrill rubbed at his chin, a thoughtful look coming into his watery eyes. “Aye. Knight-Lieutenant Lorenz said he’d pay good coin to see her. Dead or alive.”

The man pinning Anders drew a short knife from the back of his belt. “Better safe ‘n sorry, I say. We might be able to swing somefin’ from all this after all.”

That ended the debate; Merrill dug deep and summoned every ounce of mana she could muster, letting it flow around her like a gentle whirlwind of building energy. The man holding her didn’t notice the sudden breeze, too distracted by the promise of a payday he would never see. But Anders saw her and frantically reached out a hand. A knee was still pinned against his throat, but he managed to choke out, “Mer-rill… don’t… too open!”

She didn’t listen. She didn’t care. Hawke was in danger, and Merrill would be damned if she fought this hard to save her only to let these brutes steal her now. She felt mana coursing through her system as the man holding her captive gestured to Hawke’s form and barked, “Well don’ jus’ stand there! Off her, then check ‘er pockets. She may have some qunari goodies hidden on her.”

Merrill sucked in a breath, letting the magical energy within her swell to breaking point. Everything around her went suddenly quiet, as if all the air had been stolen from the alleyway.

When it burst, the magicka didn’t explode so much as _snap_. There was a burst of light, so bright it hurt even her eyes. The two men shouted in surprise, Merrill’s captor dropping her as his hands reflexively flew up to shield his eyes.

Merrill dropped to the ground, hands digging into the dirt as the magic continued its course through her. The ground began to shake, rumbling like an earthquake and sending little pebbles sailing into the air where they floated serenely in the magical maelstrom she was building all around her.

Before the two brutes could recover, she ripped both hands up with a shout of effort. The ground bucked beneath their feet as great pillars of stone tore up from the ground, sending the two sailing into the air with terrified shouts. She regained her balance, drew up her mana, and thrust both hands out toward the two.

Two massive boulders, each the size of a man in their own right, sailed from the ground and rocketed toward the two, crashing into them before exploding with terrible ferocity. The men were sent careening into nearby buildings, where they bounced off like limp rag dolls before crashing to the ground.

Merrill looked to Anders, breath coming in harsh gasps from the exertion. “On your feet, Anders. Others will be drawn by the noise. We have to move quickly.”

Anders rubbed at his throat as he struggled back to his feet. “That was stupid. If the locals weren’t paying attention to us before—”

“I don’t care,” she snapped, stepping closer and hoisting up her end of the stretcher once more. “We’re close to the Tower now. We can make it if we run. One last push.”

Anders grunted as he hefted his side of the burden and muttered, “If you say so.”

Behind her, the two men were beginning to rise to their feet. Unfortunate; Merrill hadn’t intended to kill them, but she’d hoped her attack had knocked them out at the very least. They groaned as they rose, holding sprained ankles and twisted shoulders, but raised their voices to shout out, “Oi! Everyone get out here! We got us some apostates on the run!”

Merrill swore quietly in Dalish, while Anders cursed far louder and more fluently in words all could hear and understand. Together, the two mages took off at a near-run, heading in the direction of the Circle Tower, and the ironic promise of safety it offered.

“We’ll have to use magic to ward them off,” Anders said as other locals began to investigate the shouting and the noise. Several were armed. Many more were staring at the odd procession with suspicious eyes. “Think you can do that?”

“Just don’t get us lost,” Merrill said. “I’ll keep us safe.”

A worm of uncertainty crawled through her gut at the words, but she knew when it came to Marian she would do whatever was necessary. She would fight and she would kill to keep her lover safe, just as she knew Marian would do for her if their roles were reversed.

_Marian did her part against the Arishok_ , she thought with a determined frown. _Now it’s my turn to be the hero._

~~~~~~~~

_Author's Note: Broken record time. I apologize for the HUGE delay in updating this story. Those who follow my DeviantArt page are probably up to speed, but for those who don't here's a quick rundown: my mom was diagnosed with kidney cancer (she got better), my boss set me up for 11-hour shifts, 11 days a "week" before allowing me a one day weekend (that's a little better now too, but not by much), and I've been working triple-overtime to save up enough money to get a new car and move to a different town. With all that on one's plate, writing becomes almost impossible._

_That said, things are starting to stabilize and I'm back to writing every day. Thanks for bearing with me through this shitty period, and here's hoping things get better in the near future. This particular tale has almost reached its conclusion, and there should be only a chapter or two before all is wrapped up once and for all. Until then, I hope you enjoy and please favorite and comment if you do. It truly helps!_

 

 


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